I remember the day Laura brought her new son home for the first time. I was excited. I knew I'd recall it as the most important day of my life. After much debate, we decided he should be named Hampton, a family name, though I always called him Hamp when his mom wasn't hovering nearby. Her face shone with such pride in the little guy. She held him so tight that I worried she might crush him. I wondered whether she knew the proper way to carry him. "Be sure to support him from his bottom so you won't drop him. "Don't hold him too tight, or you might squeeze the life out of him." She wouldn't surrender him to anyone else's hugs and affection. I could hardly catch a glimpse of him, wrapped as he was in his swaddling clothes. He seemed so small, wrinkled, and wiggly when she let me see him. When I looked carefully at him, he didn't look like me at all; he appeared so--well, ugly. But I knew he had to be mine. I felt confident he'd grow out of it, that eventually, he'd become handsome like me. Hamp slept most of the time--actually, he mostly dozed, cried, and pooped. At night he lay next to his mom in bed. At first, Laura wouldn't let me sleep next to them. I sat in a recliner chair across the room and watched them as they slept. I feared Laura let him sleep too close; she might roll over and suffocate him. She never did. As a new mother, she must have had a natural maternal instinct on how to care for her baby. Later, when I was allowed in their bed, Hamp reached out, touched me, cooed, and cuddled me. The thought of him caressing me--loving me--sent chills down my back. He had accepted me. And soon, he learned to say my name, Herman. As he got older, Laura began reading him stories, mostly fairy tales, from a hardbound book with detailed line drawings illustrating the story's characters--knights, princes, princesses, and dragons. At first, Hamp enjoyed looking at the pictures with wide-eyed fascination. He pressed his hand against the colored forms and giggled as he traced the drawings with his tiny fingers. Eventually, he took crayons and scribbled on the books to improve the artists' work, the results annoying his mom. Still, she accepted his need to express himself, and over the years, she collected many more illustrated books for Hamp, books with colorful renderings of kings and castles, pirates, and pirate ships. I sat with him for hours explaining the art, helping him sound out the various letters, and how to string the letters into words. He learned to read, love words and stories, and appreciate art as he leafed through those books. Hamp and I became the best and closest of friends. Since Hamp was short and chubby, he became an attractive target for bullies. In elementary school, he frequently needed me to soothe the physical and emotional wounds he received at school. At night when Hamp was upset or frustrated, he could punch me in the arm to relieve the stress; when he was lonely or feeling rejected, we could hug each other tight, and he would feel accepted and secure. Even as he aged, he'd come home and hug me--anxious or lonely. When he was in the seventh grade, he came home especially upset. There was a dance at school. His first childhood crush had been on a black-haired girl named Barbara. He thought she was beautiful, though he was confused why he considered any girl attractive at that age. He idolized her and sat staring at her at every opportunity during class. He asked Barbara to dance with him that day, and she agreed. Holding her hand and putting his arm around her waist gave him an unfamiliar tingling feeling. Then some of the bullies interrupted them. They taunted Barbara, "You shouldn't dance with that ugly, fat boy." She stopped dancing with Hamp at once. That day he came home humiliated--broken-hearted. He came to me, tears streaming down each cheek and his eyes puffy and red. As always, I was there to comfort him. I tried to convince him that he'd make other female friends. I wasn't much help since the only female I had been close to was Laura, his mom. But I did convince him that most of his life lay ahead of him, and things would get better. Then came the fights in high school. Hamp had to learn to face aggression: avoid it somehow, fight his way out of the trouble, or run from it. I recommended that he learn to avoid conflict altogether; I had no idea how to advise him how to fight. He'd come home bruised mentally and physically regardless of which path he chose. He needed me most then, and I was happy I could help him deal with life’s pains and bruises. After Hamp left to go to college, he didn't come home at night anymore. He decided to go into art and writing--the fine arts. I like to think the time I spent with him and those beautiful books had a lot to do with his decision for his future. I haven't seen him in such a long time since he went away to college. At night I sit on a chair in his bedroom and wait for him to return. I am lonely. He must not need me as much anymore. After a while, Laura decided to redecorate Hamp's bedroom. She placed what remained of me in a cardboard box that went into a dark closet. I guess I'm lucky. Though Laura sewed and mended me many times over the years, I lost most of my stuffing. I was afraid she was going to discard me with the trash. So, I'll sit here waiting patiently until Hamp returns for me. I'm sure he'll come home soon and take me with him when he leaves. I know he still needs me. After all, we're still best of friends, aren't we? END


Regret is something people always seem to carry with them. Whether it was because of some decision they never took or one that only led them down the wrong path. It always seems to be constant in a person’s life, a state of existence that requires no change. So why is it, when it comes to the end of your days, when that same existence begins to slowly die down, do people finally begin to unload all their regret for anyone to hear? The story always seems to be the same, really. Without emotion or belief, they all begin to cry out to the same tune ‘*if* I had just done this’ or ‘*if* I just had more time’. Always if. Always without promise or resolve. Always just a tape, placed on repeat. The need to change what’s within or even press pause for a few moments having been lost, never to be found. Or at least, that’s how it usually went. I would be making my usual rounds. The hallways heavy with the sound of sorrow. Regret, dripping from the doors they came from like tears that left the grieving families eyes. Yet, within that mess of cries, like each day I came across it, one person’s tales stood out more than anything else. Much like a diamond in the rough. A man who I had come so used to passing, collecting what he had laid out for me in the form of drifting words and lazy tales that in one striking moment I found myself so unprepared. “you don’t have to stay by the door...” It came as a bit of a shock really. Having become so used to listening from afar, to wander by his door, collecting the shiny gems that spilled from within his mouth. To be called in, even if it was my job to care for patients, seemed strangely different. As if this very room had become one that I wished not to enter, to only observe from its doorway without any need for further contact. Standing there though, I began to think. Think what may happen *if* I didn’t take this chance, *if* I were to ignore his statement and just keep going on with my day. Frankly the thought began to sicken me. To think I might join those I despised so much, to find regret within my own actions, provided a push that sent me forward and through the door. I used to hear him talk while I did my rounds. Usually to himself, speaking of days long gone. Most of the tales, if you even want to call them that, were of his parents. Sometimes, I would catch bits and pieces, nothing important really. Though on occasions, the stories would seem to keep at a pattern, growing stronger with each retelling, forming a tale of the past that, as I walked by, would be quick to listen to. Through these tales I would begin to hear of his life. Hearing of the stories on how his father was a drinker, a man of Irish blood, falling upon his own needs and soon finding his feelings down the long neck of whatever bottle he held within his grasp. Other times it was of his mother and how she used to sing to him, something he spoke about in longing now more than ever, after having ignored it for so long as a child. After a while I would find myself waiting, expecting really, for the tales to drift from his room. To pick them up as I passed by, revealing to me something new and interesting about him, something that I knew would brighten my day. Slowly beginning to want more as time went on, my pickups taking longer and longer. My interest willing me to remain, to listen and observe of the tales he left behind. The tales had begun to change for me after a while. What once was a pastime, something I collected like the endless tools and towels during my rounds, had begun to shine through everything else. A tiny treasure really, one that I held onto without regret, without second thought to what may happen without their presence. The room was brighter than I expected, the curtains hanging open and the windows swung free to allow in a natural breeze. His sheets freshly replaced; the air filled with lavender. The refresher mixing with the smell of the world outside, as if trying its best to combine and hide away the sickness that clung just outside of the doorway. And yet, with all these distractions, they did little to hide the man that lay before me. A complete opposite of the rooms sparkling image. The man was dying. Sickness having claimed its right to take his body, leaving him bedridden and closer to death with each passing day. This was of a story so common, heard so many times that most would find themselves yawning at the retelling of it. And yet, as I stared at the man before me, thinking over to the thousands of others I had found in a similar situation, I couldn’t help but feel...empty. Its as if this man’s presence before me, one I saw drifting away so quickly, had already begun to create a void. A void I knew would never be filled; a void placed there because I found myself wondering what I would do without his tales. Finding myself so lost within my sorrow, the cheery room before me slowly beginning to corrode. Every calming scent reminding me of the death it hid. Every pleasant image, the calm sheets and fluffed up pillows used only to hide the dying body that lay before it. "...I know I'm dying; you don't have to feel bad about it" The man's words, once more pulling me away from where I was. His calmness, especially towards death - something I had grown so quickly to detest in this moment, made me feel almost ridiculous for finding such pain from the death he drew ever so close to. So instead, as I stood there watching him hold on for as long as his body allowed, I decided to do it with him. To stand by his side, to sit and talk and to listen most especially. To watch his body as it faded away, the strength he had held onto slowly crumbling before me. Watching so quietly at the end, a smile so pleasantly placed upon his lips as if none of this truly mattered. It was only then, once the silence truly began to set in, did I begin to cry. The tears streaming down my face, breaking whatever silent oath I had made for myself to never feel for a patient, to never truly care for what they did. But it was also in that moment, as the tears continued to fall that I began to notice the little red book that hid so well within his hands. A notebook that as I slowly slid away from his hands, I noticed my name written across. Careful to open such a thing now, my eyes beginning to dry while the first few words showed through. Tales old and new, ones that I remembered so fondly and ones I was excited to explore. Flipping through the pages, glancing across the words written down so fondly, until I came across the final words, one that drew me to pause for only a moment before I began to crumble once more, finally letting everything go, my tears and stammers filling the halls ‘...to the nurse who listened’  if you made it to the end of this story then i congratulate you.


“Girls, shhhhh,” a voice admonished them. Claire and Diana sheepishly peered toward the librarian, instinctively reaching to cover the phone in their hand. “Sorry, Ms. Rose,” Claire responded first. Always a favorite of the teachers, she liked keeping it that way. “I can see the phone, girls. Do you really need that to complete your homework?” the librarian seemed to enjoy living up to her role as the stern caretaker of library sanctity. “We are using it for our algebra homework, unless you would like to lend us the abacus in your drawer,” Diana tartly responded. Never one to back down to authority, Diana didn’t seem too worried she might get caught in the lie. Ms. Rose looked like she wanted to admonish Diana but thought better of it; her parents were one of the biggest donors to the library. “Well keep it down. This is not a zoo.” She walked away huffily, presuming it gave her an air of importance when really it made her seem like a twelve year old rehearsing for a play. Claire and Diana turned their attention back to their phone. “Are you sure we should send this?” Claire whispered, trying to sound more matter of fact than she felt. “Girl, come on. Don’t flake now! This is gold. Can’t wait to take that bitch down a few notches. All coming in here with her South African accent and her diplomat parents. Let’s see her act like she is all that after this comes out!” Claire looked again at the photo she had taken that they were about to send to all her classmates. On her own she was never as bold as her friend, but Diana had a way of needling her to action. She knew she’d be in big trouble if her parents found out, but even they seemed to succumb to Diana’s charm. Plus, it was true, the picture she had taken would cause a commotion and Claire kind of liked that she would move from the periphery to the epicenter for a while. Lately, she had the distinct feeling that she was a colorless outline, like she was barely visible even to herself. “Hey, you in or what?!” Diana impatiently rapped her knuckles on the table, eliciting another round of shhhhs from a neighboring table. Claire sucked in her breath and before she could think about it any further, tapped the send button and heard the satisfying chime of the message racing through radio waves to her classmates’ phones and lighting up screens around town. When Claire walked toward her locker the next morning, she felt eyes on her that made her walk a bit taller and flip her auburn hair a few extra times to maximize her air of drama. She sat a few rows back from her usual spot in the front of the classroom and daydreamed about how the rest of her sophomore year in high school would be different. “She’s a badass,” people would whisper. “She’s not afraid to take someone down! Don’t mess with her. Also, isn’t she so pretty?! And she now has the largest boobs in our year.” “Psssst,” a sound poked into her thought bubble. Claire turned to the direction of the hiss and her eyes widened. It was the boy she had been crushing on for half a year and had never turned his head to look toward her. Alex’s sage eyes now looked directly at her while his arms outstretched under the desk were flashing something in her direction. “Yo, did you take this?” Claire quickly contemplated the tone in which she should respond, and speak the first words ever to her crush outside of “Hey, you dropped your pen.” “Oh yea, haha, I forgot about that. Hilarious though, right?” Claire flicked back the hair framing her face as she responded hoping it would add to the breeziness coating her response. Alex cocked his head to the right and furrowed his brows before shrugging his shoulders and turning back to the front of the room. Claire felt the heat rise up from her collar to her cheekbones as she tried to concentrate back on whatever her teacher was word-vomiting about in the front of the room. That was not the response she was expecting. Maybe he hadn’t really heard her? For the first time since she had pressed the send button, the doubts she had decluttered from her head started creeping back in like wild ivy. She had to find Diana at the end of class for her dose of emboldenment. But her friend found her at the end of class, weaving through the hallway of open lockers and raucous classmates. Claire could tell she was heading toward her because Diana’s eyes didn’t leave her face as she practically swatted people out of her path. As soon as her friend reached her, she pulled her out through a fire escape door to the back stairs. “Shit, Claire, did you hear”? Her friend’s voice was vibrating the words out with strain. Claire was so caught off guard with the fear radiating off her friend that she just gaped at her. Fear was a shade she didn’t recognize in her friend. “Claire, Claire are you listening? Did you hear? Jesus, Nika, she...she. OK can you stop staring at me like a dumb duck? Claire, Nika attempted suicide last night and is in the hospital in critical condition.” Claire felt the walls change direction around her and had a sudden sensation that she was freefalling down the stairs in front of her. She felt the weightlessness in her legs and the rush of adrenaline in her chest. And then she wasn’t entirely sure she was still awake; drowsiness filled her eyes as she wished the last twenty-four hours had never happened. That she could go back to the library and remove her finger away from the button that would send the photo of a period stain on a white dress to half her classmates.


In the night, Lucia awakens and remembers how it used to be, those hot summer days in Tuscany when everyone at the villa stretched out for siesta. She gravitated to the boathouse, where she’d mosey into the murky shade with the sound of water slapping the hull. And soon there would be Guido, also seventeen, climbing out from the water, pushing back his dripping hair. “Come, slip into the water,” he’d say, trailing fingertips over the surface. “No, Ma worries when I swim alone.” “But you’ll be with me.” Shy smile. “Oh, a boy! That’s even worse than drowning!” He’d lean closer, pressing his wet limbs against hers, leaving blotches all over her cotton blouse and culottes, marks that vanished once she got back in the sunshine. Tonight, three decades later, she senses Guido in bed beside her, his bulk a testament to his commitment to family and home and tradition. Theirs is a solid marriage, seen as strong and enduring by their friends in New Jersey who know them as Guy and Lucy. A marriage that produced four children, all young adults now, all busy with college or work and not able to be part of la raccolta delle olive , the annual Tuscan harvest. Despite the sweat and dirt, it's like a honeymoon for Lucia and Guido, after all the years of never getting away on their own. Why has it taken them so long to return, her sisters will demand to know. We were busy raising children , she imagines answering, but that is a lie. One of many she will be telling, perhaps. At the first ray of dawn, Lucia in her poplin pajamas tiptoes from the room. They are staying in a tiny bunkhouse, the overflow sleeping quarters from the main villa where her sisters and their families are staying. She stubs her toe. Stramaledetto! she gasps and then swallows the pain, the expletives. Guido slumbers on. No one else appears to be up; from her window the villa looks dark. La raccolta is hard labor: carrying nets to the groves, laying them out, raking the branches, all the time taking care not to tread on the olives. And then in the mill: cleaning the crates of raw olives, mashing them, feeding the press. No wonder everyone sleeps like a log. The day is brightening; sun gleams from the mirror hanging near the bunkhouse door. She looks closely at it--not at her reflection, which is haggard, but at the hand-carved frame. She recognizes the handiwork of Guido’s uncle, Rocco. Lucia is instantly awake; it’s as if Rocco has stepped directly from the gloom to pinch her. He was an eccentric, vulpine presence she instinctively tried to avoid from the moment she could walk. She rakes her fingers through her sleep-tousled hair. The frame--the memory of Rocco surrounded by wood shavings and razor-edged chisels while he carved tendrils on the brows of putti --disquiets her. With a fingertip she traces a wooden spiral. A small spiral--yet she feels dizzy. After all these years, she thinks. Still. She must get out, must clear her head. She pulls on shoes, a windbreaker, and a traveler’s belt, which was looped over the back of a chair. She exits the bunkhouse, feet crunching gravel on her way to the rental car. She’d seen a hole-in-the-wall café during the drive from the airport to the villa, and plans to go there now. But the villa parking lot is full of vehicles, including a truck that boxes in her car. During la raccolta , many able bodies return, like salmon to their spawning grounds. She notices the boathouse. The sun is glinting from its slightly dented aluminum roof. It’s at once shabbier and more real to her than anything else on this trip. The closer she approaches, the more waterlogged the turf. A cold wetness penetrates her canvas boaters. She jiggles the rusted latch until it gives way, then she enters the boathouse, leaving the door wide for light to pierce the gloom. A familiar dank smell fills her nose. She sees a boat, a hulking craft that blocks the view. An ordinary boathouse , she tells herself. Perfectly ordinary. So long ago. Memories come rushing back. Right here, in this corner, she used to hide, anticipating, moistening at the thought of Guido’s cool limbs upon hers. He always swam to enter secretly via the boat side. In the other corner--she can scarcely bear the thought--is where, once, Rocco had lain in wait for her. She takes out her cell phone from the traveller’s belt and snaps a photo. She uses a flash, so everything is devastatingly illuminated. This is her method of exorcism: She snaps photos of things she hates: she reduces them to small flat representations. This defangs them. Her phone has a picture of a rat snapped in the subway tunnel. And a tarantula that escaped from its aquarium in her daughter’s bedroom (and was safely re-caught). And the creepy T-shirt vendor at the farmer’s market where she sells the artisanal extra-virgin olive oil. You can fool some of the people all of the time, she thinks. She speed-walks back to the bunkhouse, alert to small noises of others waking. Inside, she pries off the clammy canvas boaters. She peels off the windbreaker and tries to drape it over the abhorrent frame, but she can’t get it to stay put. She feels dizzy simply touching it, as if Rocco is waiting to ambush again. Despair mounting, she slides into bed beside Guido. He grunts softly as she shifts her weight. Her eyes adjust to the dimness, and she watches expressions on his face moving like storm clouds on the weather-channel map. She wonders: how has he reconciled what happened on that long-ago afternoon? When he swam into the boathouse ready to hold her for a few stolen minutes--and instead found Rocco trying to subdue her? So many years and they have never spoken of what happened next. At first, they couldn’t--they’d crept away, separately, stunned and shaking, leaving a lifeless form under water. They’d forced themselves into busy-ness, with farmwork all afternoon and evening and the next day. Acting normal. On occasion, Rocco had sneaked away from the villa before, so the search for him started late. On the third day his waterlogged body appeared among reeds near the boathouse. No sign of trauma... an accidental drowning. Guido had been among the pallbearers. Not blinking an eye. Lucia kept watching, waiting for the mask to slip, especially when they were alone together, but Guido avoided her for the next month. In church, she confessed to the sex but never mentioned holding a man’s head under water. Meanwhile, their student visas had come through. A secret that was next-to-impossible to keep when at the villa, seeing the boathouse every day, became easy to keep at a private school in upstate New York. They plunged into a new life in a new land. The Guy & Lucy Show . The boathouse memory faded, flaring only when she smelled dankness or heard the slap of waves against an empty hull. Now, as she watches Guido sleeping on the bunkhouse bed, she wonders what episode is playing in his mental cinema. Is he reliving that first playful kiss? Or is he re-thinking the problem of winding a net around a struggling man? Forget the bond of parenthood; nothing binds you quite as tightly as being accomplices in an unrevealed murder. Stop it , she thinks. Just stop it. You can fool some of the people all of the time . She lies there recalling times she nearly came clean: first time, two days after the funeral, when she’d heard Rocco’s mother weeping in the night. Second time was when they walked alone over the Victory Bridge and she had an eerie feeling Guido planned to remove the only other witness to the deed. And then, the third time, after their big argument-- over what? a sofa? --that had escalated to the nuclear option, when she was ready to pack up the baby and, oh yeah, report the crime to Interpol. A sofa? She can hardly believe it was so trivial. Then she discovered anti-depressants. Their secret remained intact, the truth of what happened to Rocco on that sultry day in July in a boathouse in Tuscany. In her mind she tours the old places--the hilltop towns, the winding roads, the lanes of cypress trees--and she falls asleep again. Then she dreams about Guido dragging Rocco into the water, plunging him in while she cast a net around him, pushing him under and holding him down until he grew still. She hears water slapping against an empty hull. She awakens, gasping, heart pounding, uncertain in her jet-lagged state whether it’s morning or evening. * * * Last Christmas, Guy had been so hungry for Lucy. He nuzzled her neck, running his hands up and down her arms, her back, her breasts, and whispered, “I remember that first time in the boathouse, Lulu. I’d love to go there again...” “I’m sure they’ve torn it down by now,” she murmured. “Besides, everyone will be there. And tongues will wag, old history will be dredged up.” But he kept talking it up--with her, with the children, with both families in Tuscany. “For once,” he promised, “we’ll help with la raccolta. ” He bought tickets. The night before the flight to Florence, he had a terrible case of cold feet. He told her that it would flay him alive to see the boathouse. He was dreading being face-to-face with his senile mother, his grasping siblings, and her relentless sisters. He was going only because she insisted. “It’s just for three weeks ,” she said. “We’ll be too busy to spit.” His reluctance surprised her, or more properly, his disclosure of his reluctance. She smoothed his forehead with her cool palm. You can fool all of the people some of the time. * * * On the final day of the visit, the sisters are sitting around the table, staring at Lucia. The breakfast is growing cold on the table. One of the children picks at it. Her sisters are silent except for Corinna, who is a year and a half younger than she is, but looks ten years older. Corinna says, “Do you think, sharing our bedroom so many years ago, that I did not notice when you stopped having siesta there?” This is all my fault, Lucia thinks. I let Guido think we only needed to act innocent. He didn’t know about the sisterly shark tank. “One time I got up and followed you,” Corinna continues. “I saw you sneaking down to the river. I saw you letting yourself in the boathouse. I waited, hidden, to see who else went there. But no one did. Instead, Mamma found me, slapped me, said, why are you out in the blazing heat? Ma sei scemo? I couldn’t tell her it was you I was waiting for, Lucia. So I went back to our crummy little bedroom and waited until it was time to get up.” Lucia says nothing, scooping the foam from her caffé latte with a spoon. Touching it to her tongue. “A week later, Rocco goes missing,” Corinna says. “At first he misses the evening meal--the only time ever he missed it, but no one saw that as significant as I did. Handsome Rocco. I figured you had your eyes on him; what girl did not? Not like his ugly, spider-legged nephew Guido.” “Corinna!” Maria cries, aghast. “ Bada a come parli! ” Lucia narrows her eyes. She’s forgotten how cruel Corinna can be; she will say anything to provoke a response. She frowns, knowing she should stick up for Guido, but resisting the obvious ploy to be dragged into an argument. “And then, the next day, you stopped going to the boathouse for siesta. Right away. You knew he wouldn’t be there,” Corinna says. “Even though it was the following day when they declared him missing.” Lucia pries the end off her cornetto and puts it in her mouth. As if she is tasting it. Act normal. “Oh, you are cold-blooded. No tears.” Now Corinna is standing and stabbing her finger at Lucia. “The next day they find him--drowned in that part of the river curiously close to the boathouse.” Lucia rips a bigger piece from the cornetto, stuffs it in her mouth. “Of course I said something,” Corinna says. “I went to Mamma right away and told her. She laughed. Laughed! She said, life was not a romanzo giallo . And then she slapped me, told me not to distress poor Rocco’s family with discorsi pazzi . But you!” She shakes her finger at Lucia. “You never once shed a tear for him. I used to listen at night as you fell asleep. You never once cried .” “Truth be told, I hated that creep,” Lucia says calmly--and immediately regrets being drawn in. “My sister, the murderer,” Corinna accuses. “I couldn’t have overpowered him! He was a grown man; I was seventeen. No. You are mistaken.” “Even now I see how strong you are,” Corinna insists. Lucia’s eyes sting. She regrets how intensely she has been working, trying to keep pace with Guido. Why does Corinna target her ? Why not Guido ? He is, maddeningly, blameless in the eyes of everyone. He is kind. Good-natured. Constitutionally incapable of homicide, they think. Her resentment churns. For a picosecond she imagines turning the interrogation light on him. Casting the blame. And yet--she was grateful, so long ago, that Guido had interrupted Rocco and had taken immediate action. “Corinna, I think the long days are tiring you,” Guido says. Lucia is startled; she had not seen him come in. She wonders how much he has overheard. Now he presses the button on the espresso machine and the noise becomes too loud for speaking. While it grinds, he can inspect Corinna, maintaining a mask of grave concern. As soon as the noise ends, he declares, “My family accepted the coroner’s report. My uncle Rocco over-indulged in wine that day. He died from accidental drowning. Please, leave us to our mourning. Do not tear apart families with lies and suspicions.” Lucia and Guido exchange a glance. Easy for you , she thinks. Your alibi is as airtight as an astronaut’s suit. “Come quick, the horse escaped!” Nella coaxes Corinna outside with a small crisis not-crisis. The sisters disperse. Soon the dining area is full of children and spouses grabbing a bite before they go out to the groves. Maria comes to the bunkhouse where Lucia is packing, and Guido is shaving. Outside, a van waits to take them to the small local airport; from there they will fly to Florence. “That Corinna --completamente pazza !” Maria says, shaking her head. “Is this a new thing,” Lucia says, deliberately casual, “or has she been raving about this all along?” “For years,” Maria says. “It’s so embarrassing! That’s why we never pressured you to come back. We hoped she would, you know, get it out of her system.” “Some people develop obsessions,” Lucia says. She tries to sound neutral, unshaken. “Yes, an idée fixe ,” Maria says. “Like, ‘electromagnetism is poisoning us’...” She stops and stares at the bunkhouse mirror, which now has a sheet of newspaper taped over it. “What is this? Do you have some problem with mirrors?” “No, nothing,” Lucia says lightly. “Oh, are you following the recent election?” Maria asks. By happenstance, it is the front page of La Nazione . News of the recent far-right victory. She shakes her head disgustedly. “What is it they say? You can fool some of the people all of the time... and all of the people some of the time...” But not all of the people all of the time. Lucia shrugs. “I kind of forget how that goes.” The End


The Grand Coastal Route locomotive came careening through the tracks high above the red rock canyon. The locomotive engineer was trying his best to outrun the train robbers closing in on the passenger cars but these efforts were proving to be worthless. Due to the train’s high speeds, dust clouds had formed around the cars and dirtied their windows, impairing visibility outside. The civilians, unaware of the situation outside, harshly critiqued the driving of the engineer. “How preposterous!” A wealthy gentleman exclaimed to the passengers of the last car, “Is the brainless bastard steering this machine purposely trying to kill us?!” Many of the others, dressed in similar upper-class garments agreed with the gentleman’s comments. All but one were caught in the wave of unrest; he sat peacefully in a velvet-lined booth towards the end of the car. Lengthy unruly hair and a light, brown beard indicating he hadn’t crossed paths with a razor in months, the bolo tie worn above his simple white collar shirt and charcoal black vest with a duster revealing he was a native to the west. He stood out among the crowd of elites on the train, his dress only semi-formal and his hygiene typical of the west. Although the man sat silent, he was well aware of the immense danger the passengers faced. Along the train rode a masked figure garbed in a stone gray vest, black denim jeans, and a pristine white dress shirt. Speeding along on a brown-spotted white horse, the train bandit reached the leading car of the train. Aggressively, he drew his single-action revolver from it’s holster and waved it about in the air, hoping the glare would catch the attention of the engineer. Once the engineer looked to his left, he knew it was all over. “NOOOO! Don’t! Please!” the engineer begged for his life, but futile these efforts would prove to be. Without haste the robber fired his sidearm, planting a hunk of lead in between the elderly man’s eyes with blood spurting from the exit wound. As his body slumped to the ground and fell from the train, the bandit stood up from his horse and daringly leapt to the controls. Without hesitation, the ruffian finessed the controls, adjusting all the right levers to slow the train down. Finally, the heist could commence. Noting the speed of the train had begun to reduce, passenger unrest had declined.. Many had gone back to casual conversations, mainly pertaining to events happening back east or their enthusiasm for land development here in the west. However, like dynamite tearing through the rough granite of the Sierras, the peaceful mood was abruptly killed by the storming of the cart. Four armed figures all donning black masks and bandoliers rushed into the cart and shot towards the ceiling, signalling a hold up. The gentleman who originally led the outcry against the driver, foolishly filled with a sense of heroism, exploded from his seat and attempted to hold one of the bandits up at gunpoint. Faster than his exploits, the shotgun wielding robber pumped the man with shrapnel moments before he could reach for his gun, eviscerating what was once the man’s abdomen. His blood decorated the red velvet seats and wooden floors. “Any otha coot wanna try dey hand?!” The lead bandit shouted, brandishing a six-shooter. He got nothing but terrified stares as a response. “No? Aight den. Men, go collect da goods.” The highwaymen began to clear the passengers of all their cash and expensive glittery goods with little resistance. The large shotgun wielding thug reached the quiet stranger’s seat, him leaned against a window with his hat slightly tipped over. “Ay! Are you deaf are just stupid?” He slurred out in a thick southern accent. The stranger instantly leapt up and drove his knife into the thug’s throat while knocking him to the floor. The stranger then quickly unholstered his black iron revolver with his right hand and fired two shots which tore through the foreheads of the other two robbers. Amid the passengers shock and gasps, the lead bandit aimed his gun at the hero but a black gentleman in the front seat leapt at and punched the bandit in his jaw. With this opening, the stranger shot the gun out of the robbers hand and shot him in the arm and side causing him to kneel. The gunman walked up to the robber, crouched down, and asked, “Zhelang’s on this heist, ain’t he? Unless you good for nothins changed the plan.” “I can’t believe you’d betray us, Kellan, you damned dirty snake!” the robber replied angrily. “That don’t answer my question, Kenny. Besides, y’all were holding me back.” Kellan proudly claimed. The robber continued his silence, making Kellan splatter his brains on the wall. He stood up, took Kenny’s repeater from his back and tossed the rifle over to the rebellious passenger. “I want you to shoot any armed bastard that comes back here who ain’t me or badges, ya hear?” He questioned the passenger, who nodded in compliance before cocking the worn repeater. With this cabin cleared, Kellan proceeded onto the rest of the train looking for his former companion. As soon as he opened the door to the luggage cabin the three outlaws within unleashed a flurry of bullets upon Kellan. Immediately, the lone gunman dove behind a makeshift fort of boxes and barrels but not before one bullet grazed his right arm. “Well boys, call me an 8 day clock in June but aint dat Kellan I just saw?” One bandit remarked. “Griggs! I always look forward to seeing how much heavier you are each day, ya overfed hog.” Kellan playfully replied. The robber, extremely offended by this jab, cocked his pump action and began charging towards Kellan’s position but the cowboy exploded from the back of his cover; sawed off in his left hand, revolver in the right. He first erased Griggs’ face from existence via sawed-off, replacing it with a crimson fleshy mess. Next, Kellan planted two bullets in the chest of one bandit and kneecapped the last before ending his agony with a bullet to the heart. Taking a breather, Kellan sat down to reload his guns and tend to his minor wound with some rum he saw on the floor. After 5 minutes, he was ready to continue his onslaught but first liberated Grigg’s gun, feeling he might need some more firepower to win this war. Exploding into the next car, Kellan kicked the door in into the dining car and instantly blasted one robber out the window with his new toy. The other robber quickly jumped behind the bar as Kellan dove into a dining booth and both began firing at each other as Kellan pointed civilians out through the back. While the bandit’s revolver kept Kellan from advancing, Kellan’s shotgun was tearing away at the bandits cover which could only withstand about two more shots. The bar was becoming a stack of toothpicks and right when he needed one more shot, the gun suddenly jammed. “Me and my got-damn luck.” Kellan grumbled as he inspected the gun. The bandit continued firing into the booth but Kellan, fed up with this back and forth, devised a better plan to deal with his foe. Unholstering his revolver, Kellan fired at the wall of alcohol behind the bandit causing it to cascade all over him. Then, the heroic gunman snatched a match from his baroque-engraved cigarette case, lighting it in the process, and flicked the burgeoning young flame towards the liquor soaked robber behind the bar. Instantaneously the bar was enveloped in a crimson blaze as the bandit, also caught aflame, danced back and forth whilst unleashing a blood curdling scream that could pierce the heavens. Once the screaming stopped and the bandit’s shriveled corpse collapsed, Kellan emerged from the booth with his guns reloaded and ready. With most of the train robbers disposed of, Kellan easily blasted his way through the remaining forces in the rest of the cars. Eventually, he reached the engine and the mess left by the poor engineer. He approached the controls and attempted to stop the train when a small knife lodged itself in his right hand making him pull back from pain. Turning around to spot his attacker, Kellan looked up to see his former leader and friend, Xin Zhelang, glaring down at him with a piercing murderous intent not even his flowing hair could interrupt. As he ripped the knife from his hand, Kellan shouted, “You brought this mess upon yourself Zhelang! It was YOUR decision to use me as bait to save your skin! You knew I couldn’t sweep that under the rug!” The Chinese gang leader stood perched over Kellan, statue-esque in his form as if the gunslinger’s words couldn’t penetrate his anger. Finally, Zhelang turned around and responded, “Your words won’t settle this, pestilent snake!” as he walked towards the back of the train. Kellan, now aware that the true challenge of this mission has begun, followed the gang leader to the top of the train. Standing atop the green and black locomotive, Kellan looked around to see the barren desert of the Mojave occasionally sprinkled with some greenery on his right and the massive canyon painted with layers of red rock the train straddled to his left. Zhelang stood at the opposite end of the roof, fixed in a combat ready pose. The two outlaws stared each other down, the rest of the world drowned out by the deafening tension pouring from atop the train. The scene stood frozen in time until suddenly both men went sprinting towards each other with violent intent. Kellan landed the first blow with a clean punch to the leader’s jaw but it left him unphased as he immediately retaliated with a few kicks to Kellan’s stomach and a sharp elbow to the face. The hero staggered back trying to recover but Zhelang was merciless in his assault. He continued with a flurry of kicks and strikes before a beautifully executed spin kick laid Kellan out on the ground. Underestimating his foe, Zhelang stepped over and began lifting Kellan by his shoulder but the downed gunslinger swung around and bashed the revolver’s rosewood handle into the Chinaman’s temple. With his target staggered Kellan exploded into action, slamming the gun straight down onto Zhelang’s skull which caused him to slump down to his knees. The cowboy was ready to land his finishing strike when Zhelang, whose face was now decorated with streams of blood, blocked the gun’s handle with one of his knives. Kellan, mumbling with annoyance, jumped back to avoid any other knife attacks as Zhelang picked himself up and brandished a second knife. The two engaged each other once more with Zhelang’s mastery over knives keeping the cautious cowboy from ending this fight soon. Sustaining cut after cut, Kellan knew if he couldn’t figure out some tactic to deal with Zhelang he’d be calling the canyon his new home. That’s when he realized there’s only one way to be triumphant. The Grand Coastal Route locomotive-now a shell of itself with frightened passengers, dead bandits everywhere, a burning dining car, and no engineer-began it’s crossing of the giant bridge extending across the massive canyon below. Kellan and Zhelang, still locked in mortal kombat atop the train, paid little attention to their surroundings and kept at the battle. Now, with everything in position, Kellan could put his plan into place.After being kicked and pushed back by Kellan, Zhelang charged towards his former friend and drove both knives deep into his abdomen. The pair stood in place, as if God himself were preserving this scene, soaking in what just transpired. Kellan then, through the blood accompanied coughs and cold steel invading what felt to him to be his liver, let out a slight chuckle and embraced his enemy. “What is there to laugh about, snake, this is the end for you.” a confused Zhelang inquired. “Well, that’s because you put yourself in the perfect position to receive some sweet southern justice.” Kellan asserted through coughs before headbutting the Chinaman and throwing him off the side of the train to be swallowed by the depths of the Mojave, his hysterical wails of horror marking his last moments on earth. With a wave of relief washing over him, Kellan took a moment to bask in his hard fought victory, still surprised he was even able to make it this far on the train. As the locomotive finished crossing the bridge, Kellan slowly made his way to the controls to stop it, wincing with every movement. Bringing the train to a complete stop, Kellan turned around and walked back to the closest passenger car, vacated by the folks he sent to the back. The hero then took a seat in the fancy velvet booth, pulled out a cigarette he blood stained with his hands, and lit it; puffing himself into unconsciousness as law enforcement approached from the eastern horizon.


“It’s all fun and games-” “Oh, would ya shut up with that, jackass?” growled Cordelia with a frown, “We’ve been walking for hours and all ya’ve been talking about is these damn games-” “I haven’t been talking about games, dummy. If you’d let me finish the sentence-” Theodora tried to reply, her hands on her hips in defiance as her travel companion growled at her. Never trust a fae that could shapeshift, her father warned her, and yet here she was. But, then again, Cordelia was the first lead she had. So, she had to distract her from realizing her true form... because that could be disastrous. “Yer an idiot, that’s all,” Cordelia snapped back, “We’ve been hikin’ in this direction for four hours , Theodora. Are ya sure ya sense he’s this way?” Theodora knew her father was this way, she could sense him after all, it was a safe scent, and she knew as soon as they descended on him, Cordelia would need to run away, and fast. But, she, for some unknown reason, wanted to be around the annoying fae for just a little bit longer, no matter how dangerous it was turning out to be. But, she could tell the woman had thicker skin than she was letting on, despite complaints, the woman wasn’t even shivering at the frost in the air, and there was a hint of musk coming off of her that humans never had. Not to mention those legs, especially the thighs, were muscular and much more so than Theodora was used to looking at in the fairy realm. And suddenly, she bumped into the taller woman, who was glaring at the other in disbelief, “Ya look pale. Are ya tired? Is that why yer trying to tell me some dumb bullshit story? We’ll set up camp... in this conveniently placed cave... let me check it out first, I don’t want there to be someone in there lurking and taking both of us out. I’m sure I could take ta anyone ta town, but with someone like ya here, I don’t know if I could focus," she winked again, and Theodora tried not to faint on the spot. Theodora blushed a bright pink, tucking her chin into her chest before turning away to make sure she could keep a perimeter around the area until Cordelia returned. The fae was right, Theodora couldn’t fight, but she did have other supernatural abilities that made her an asset in fights- including surveillance, “Kay! Hollar-” “We’re good, come in, ‘Dora,” Cordelia’s thick accent slipped through with the drop of the first part of her name. Theodora’s insides melted and were suddenly a red hot feeling, she tried not to think much about it as she nearly floated in, “Here’s the blanket, I reckon ya need it more than I.” Theodora snuggled into the blanket they’d... acquired on the way to the mountain, sighing as Cordelia set up the fire from the wood stuffed into a magical bag the woman had found in a previous town, one that could hold pretty much anything. Theodora had been shocked when the fae had wandered about it, seeing as it was a fairy-enchanted item, but then she realized, somehow, it was her father’s. He’d dropped it in hopes someone who knew him would find it. Luckily for her, Cordelia had. She then grabbed an apple out, cutting it up with a spare rock, and giving part of it to the fairy next to her. For reference, Theodora had learned to become “human-size” a long time ago, a ritual that only the fairies allowed outside the communities learned, and it was deemed “human-sized” because they were the baseline for most of the fae and supernatural creatures. Cordelia just so happened to be a wolf-like fae, others would refer to her as a werewolf, but it seemed she was more of a hybrid than anything, taking on more human features in shape, but more wolfish features in terms of body and head, fur/hair, and more. Theodora wondered if they’d ever develop a friendship where they could discuss the inner workings of each other's kin. She glanced at the fae, scarfing down a piece of chicken, and she gulped. No, probably not. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Cordelia asked, looking over curiously, with a hint of caution, as if she couldn’t believe that Theodora would even want to speak to the woman despite days of travel together; but she supposed that in other cultures, days were far less time. In fairy culture, days were like years together. So, it’s ironic that Coredilia complained about the time it took to hike this far up, or perhaps she has an elongated sense of time as well, but just intense trust issues. She thought too much, this had always been a problem, she thought annoyedly. “Just the games,” she winked, as a joke of course, but blushed herself when the wolfish cheeks grew a tad bit red, “I’m serious though. The Games are an important part of these parts... these fairy parts. I know you’re fae-” “How in Goddess’ name do ya know that?” “You’ve got the hairiest legs I’ve seen in my entire life, your eyes are yellow, you have canines the size of my head in... in fairy form... and-” “Yer a fairy?! And ya just traveled with me even though ya knew I was a fae? Are ya outta yer mind?” the woman growled, “Or just a right idiot?” “I’m not an idiot,” she frowned in return, “You just haven’t hurt me yet-” “Right! Yet ! An idiot! Fae and human alike hunt fairies, yer lucky I like ya so much or I woulda returned ya to where ya deserved. Depths of hell, ya tricky creatures.” “We don’t deserve to rot in hell, Cordelia, surely you don’t truly mean that,” Theodora begged, pleaded her to change her mind with her tone, she couldn’t bear to think someone she’d... grown to tolerate more than a fairy should a fae, could think such a way. Perhaps her father was right. “Ya don’t understand, ‘Dora. Yer kind are mischievous little ‘uckers who are constantly stealing me stuff, and then they ‘ave the audacity to try and befriend me to sell it back ta me! It’s annoyin’!” “Annoying, sure, deserving of rotting-” “Okay, sure I overexaggerated,” she waved her hands off with a sharp grin. Theodora gridded her teeth, “You can’t just say that dummy!” “Can’t I?” Theodora stood but was dragged back down. Blushing, she glanced over to see the wolfish fae put her arm around the fairy- the audacity of this woman! “Cordelia-!” “Oh come on, if you’re a true fairy ya’d die in the treck down or up. My body eats’ been the only thing keepin’ ya alive,” she grinned, “Besides, don’t act like ya haven’t been wantin’ to snuggle up ta me this entire time,” she winked. Theodora swore on the Fairy Goddess she’d get up. Except she didn’t. She stayed there until the morning sun came up, to which they both rose and continued their trek to find her father. When they did, they fought off the kidnapper and were holding hands while doing it.


“Hi, I’m Lisbeth,” I said, holding out my hand as per the instructional video. “Hello Lisbeth, I’m Bianca. Your mother,” said the woman in front of me. She matched the image on my tablet perfectly; medium height, steel-grey hair cut into a sleek bob just under her strong jaw. Piercing blue eyes that according to my data file I had inherited. I had tried to look in the mirror and hold up my tablet side by side but nearly dropped the machine in the process. “You must be Rodrick, my father,” I said, turning to the man beside Bianca. He nodded once, his head bowing low to reveal the pink balding patch atop his red wiry hair. Next I turned to a shorter man, supposedly two years my junior. “Brother. Christoph?” Christoph nodded too and stuck his hands into the pockets of his ship-issued grey jumpsuit. “Apparently that’s me.” We lapsed into an awkward silence and desperately I grasped for some information about one of them that I could seize as a conversation starter. “Mother,” I said, and Bianca turned uncertainty to me. “You enjoy the piano. Do you play or listen?” The question seemed to catch her off guard and she instinctively lifted her tabled and scrolled through her data file. “I play,” she said finally, with a cautious smile. “Prior to suspension I was a concert pianist.” “Lovely,” I said. “I am sure you were very good and I look forward to you taking it up again.” “Shall we eat?” asked father. The food had been brought through while we clustered in the corner of the room. A round table set with elegant silverware and glasses gleamed under a candelabra. The carpet was rich maroon, the walls festooned with oil paintings, giving the place an air of tradition. The rest of the ship was sterile grey; this was a family room, where those recently awakened were supposed to gather for reintegration. Father hovered awkwardly, unsure of whether to pull out mother’s chair or not. In the end they both made for the chair at once and bumped into one another. “Sorry,” they spoke in unison, then the ghost of a smile played on their lips. Mother stood back to allow father to pull out the chair, then we were soon all seated at the table. At first nobody touched their cutlery. We all brought up our data files and scrolled through, checking our culinary preferences and matching it to the food on our plates. I found that I disliked broccoli, so placed my share neatly in a napkin. Brother was apparently vegan, so ensure he took the plate without animal produce. Once we were all settled father poured sparkling water into our glasses and we began our meals. The clink of metal cutlery clashing against porcelain rang out in the small dining room. None of us felt comfortable using it after so many years with our limbs frozen in cryosleep. But it at least provided a conversation piece as we finally had some current common ground upon which to converse. “Damn fork,” father said, readjusting it in his hand and frowning as it twisted slightly when spearing broccoli. Quickly I consulted the files on father and my suspicions were confirmed. “Try swapping them in your hands; the notes say you are left-handed.” “Oh, oh of course,” father said as if he remembered. Once the action was completed his attempts were far more successful. “Does anyone else get pins and needles in their hands and feet?” mother asked suddenly. “Yes, every so often it will come on suddenly,” brother answered. “I was told it was normal but it can be quite painful especially when walking.” “I dropped my hairbrush because the tingling was so bad,” I added. My first hair brushing. I had barely had the strength to pull it through my tangled auburn locks but I had felt proud of my achievement. Until I dropped it. Again, once this conversation topic had been exhausted we lapsed into silence, with only the sounds of cutlery scraping plates or glasses setting down on the table. Once we were finished there was no distraction and we looked at one another in turn, averting eyes to avoid meeting gazes. “Now what?” asked mother. Father frowned again and consulted his tablet. “The schedule for day one says we have free time. There are suggestions of the television room for a movie, or the activities room for games.” A pause of silence that stretched into the void, past comfortable and twisting into something awkward. Brother was the first to voice what we were probably all thinking: “I’d rather go to bed.” A collective sigh as those words unlocked the shackles of obligation from us all. “Me too,” said father. Mother nodded and I added a murmur of assent. “It was lovely to meet you all,” brother insisted, trying to compensate for being the one to end the evening early. “I mean re-meet you all. They said that by day twenty-one our memories will be almost fully returned. The first day is always the worst.” “Brain fog, they call it,” mother agreed. “The confusion is at its most acute today.” We all nodded politely, the air electric with our need to get up and leave. Everyone was too polite so I stood and thanked them all for joining me. “The schedule says we meet for breakfast at seven thirty tomorrow. Have a pleasant evening.” “You too, daughter,” father said. He’d forgotten my name already. I supposed brother and I had it easier; we were supposed to call parents by their title. Still it stung he had not made more of an effort to remember my name. Even if I myself had forgotten it again. I’d have to have another look at my tablet. - I followed the navy line to the sleep habitats. The ship was pale grey; walls, floor, ceiling. All grey. Apart from the colourful lines that were designed to guide the disoriented souls awakening from cryosleep. And perhaps those that were fully awake but for who the endless maze of corridors looked much the same. My habitat was Sigma-85. The habitat area was broken up into clusters, which made finding your room easier. My few possessions would apparently be waiting for me there, having been taken from storage by the AI bots. It was as I was striding confidently following the line that I saw him; tall, medium build, wearing the usual grey jumpsuit. He was standing at the end of a corridor peering out of a porthole into space. The splatter of stars lit up a galaxy arm behind his profile, lighting the tips of his wheat-gold hair with an ethereal glow. “Hello. I’m Lisbeth,” I said confidently, having checked on my tablet again. My voice startled him and he turned rather awkwardly, with an equally strange smile. Like he didn’t quite know how to do it. Mine probably looked the same. “Hello Elizabeth.” Close enough. “I’m...um...a bit lost.” “Do you have your tablet?” I prompted. “No. I left it in my room. I’m four days awakened, I foolishly thought I could make my way without it. But I had a memory lapse and now...” I nodded in sympathy. We had been warned that sometimes although we feel we are progressing we may experience small lapses in our memories and revert back to day one or two for a brief period. That was why the importance of keeping your tablet with you was stressed over and over. I decided not to lecture him; underneath that weird smile he looked genuinely confused and terrified. “You’re on a ship bound for our new home world, you’ve been asleep for over a thousand years,” I said carefully, reciting the text on page one of the awakening document loaded onto each tablet. “We should find an AI to help reorientate you.” He nodded quickly. “Thank you. That would be best.” “Come with me, I will use the map on my tablet to locate a help point.” I tapped the app that brought up a colourful interactive map of the ship’s interior. Instantly the locator dot glowed bright orange, indicating where I was in relation to the rest of the ship. I was three corridors away from the family rooms, where I had come from and twenty corridors away from the habitat section. “Here, there is an AI panel just left down here. Let’s activate it and ask for assistance.” “Thank you,” the man said. He followed me obediently as I padded softly down the corridor, my soft-soled shoes whispering across the cold hard floor. We were going against the navy habitat line, getting further from my ultimate destination but soon we came cross a recess in the smooth grey wall, where there was a large screen and a touchpad keyboard, that lit up with a warm yellow glow as we approached. The figure of a smiling smartly-dressed man appeared on the screen. “Good evening, how may I be of assistance?” “Hello, this man has forgotten his tablet and suffered a memory lapse. He needs to know his name and ID number so that he can find his habitat and return for rest.” For a moment the figure on screen smiled warmly at us while the AI processed my words and ran them through the algorithm. “You require an ID service. Please answer yes or no.” “Yes,” I said, happy with the output. “Please stand close to the screen and look directly at the red dot for the duration of the tone.” I stood aside to allow the man access. He stood tall and straight ad didn’t blink while a small beep issued from the panel. Another pause while the AI searched through the databanks. “Welcome, crewman 7382, Antony Maldova.” “Antony, yes that’s right. How could I forget?” the man murmured, a sigh escaping his lips. “So frustrating.” I nodded in sympathy again, wondering if I too would suffer these horrible lapses even once I thought I had remembered fully. Did anyone every remember fully? If you forgot some memories, or things you liked, who would know if they were gone? If it was a secret you held deep in your heart that nobody knew, what happened if it never came back? “Antony Maldova, your habitat is Sigma-85.” My eyes blinked once. Twice. Then I checked my tablet. “There must be a mistake,” I said. “I must have been standing too close and the scan was confused. Your room can’t be sigma-85, that’s my room.” Antony’s eyes widened and he sighed again. “I’m so sorry, I must have done something wrong. I’ll try again, please stand a little further aside to avoid confusion.” “Of course.” I stood a good few steps away, far out of range of the computer screen. “Please perform an ID check,” Antony said. The AI scanned him again. “Welcome, crewman 7382, Antony Maldova.” “What is my habitat number?” Antony asked. “Antony Maldova, your habitat is Sigma-85,” spoke the AI’s smooth synthetic voice. “Oh. Thank you,” Antony said, then turned to me. His sea-green eyes were even more confused than when I found him. With my brow creased I scanned through my files. I had not had time to study further than my immediate family who I had been due to meet for dinner and my likes and dislikes of foodstuff as I had been afraid of biting into something I would find unpleasant. The silence was poignant and with my finger hovering ready to scroll further for a clue on my habitat arrangements, I happened to glance up and saw Antony’s face begin to change. “Oh. Oh now I remember...damn memory lapse...” “What?” “My notes say I’m in a relationship. That I was to expect a room mate.” I looked down at my notes, the page that had just loaded was headed “relationship” and at the top was a small file photo of Antony next to the word “fiancé”. All jewellery had been removed during the sleep and I expected I would find my engagement ring among my possessions waiting for me at my - our - habitat. “Oh, okay then,” I said, desperately aware that something more profound was required but unable to formulate the words. “Shall we...go together?” “That would be best,” I said, turning back so that we could follow the navy habitat line in the correct direction. For a long time we didn’t speak but our cushioned footsteps soon fell into a rhythm, matching pace and stride. Just before we turned into the habitat area, Antony’s hand reached out for mine. The backs of his fingers brushed my soft palm, seeking permission. I considered it. I didn’t know this man. And yet apparently I did. Throwing caution to the wind I curled my hand around his fingers. When I looked up, he was smiling down at me. And this time there was nothing awkward about it. When I returned the smile, it felt natural. The first natural reaction since awakening.


The ground rumbled. A plume of moon dust rose in the distance near where Samantha was collecting samples. Ed dropped his instrumentation and headed toward the west ridge of the Sea of Serenity crater. He opened his comm to alert ground control. “Sam--Lieutenant Harris, check-in. Do you copy?” “Captain Seran, this is ground, we are showing sharp spikes in Harris’ vitals. She’s not responding. What’s going on up there?” “Samantha Harris, check-in. Do you copy?” Captain Ed Seran continued toward her last location. “Ground this is Seran. Harris was collecting rock samples on the west Serenity Ridge just about forty meters north of my location. I’m headed that way. Looks like a landslide. Do you copy?” “We copy. Approach with caution, instrumentation shows her suit may be damaged. There’s been slight depressurization. Likely a puncture. Keep us informed.” “Copy,” Ed responded through the lump in his throat. Aware ground monitored his vitals as well he worked to slow his heart rate. “Ed,” Sam’s ragged voice, like welcomed rain in a drought, radiated in his helmet. “Copy, Sam. I’m on my way. What’s your situation?” “I’m caught. Large boulder. Think I was unconscious. Wind . . . knocked out . . . of me. Landslide. Got my coordinates? Copy.” “Ground sent them. Lay still. Breathe. I’m ten meters out. Ground, you copy?” “We copy. Glad to hear your voice, Samantha. The doctor here has some questions.” Ed listened intently as he closed in; he could see the rubble. The damage was dramatic. Small rocks mostly, but that boulder was a bone crusher. Ed worried. This was Sam. His Sam. No one knew of course, but they did. He’d need to watch what he said and did if they were to have any career after this. But all he wanted to do was to tell her what he’d never said out loud. She would only object if he had. They couldn’t be in love, that would be a sin they couldn’t recover from. “Ground, I have her in view.” “Copy.” He knelt and took her hand. A moment passed as they searched the other's face for any hidden signs. They both smiled. “Captain Seran, can you elaborate on her condition?” “Uh, yes. It appears the smaller rocks can be dealt with. The issue is the boulder. Good news her leg is free. Bad news, the suit is caught underneath. Moving the boulder or the rocks in front of the bolder is impossible without risking the rock rolling onto her. I’ll have to cut the suit away. Which is the other bad news. Any advice? Copy.” Ed looked at Sam her eyes which showed sorrow more than fear. He grabbed her hand. “We’re going to get you out of this, back on the rover, and to the airlock. You understand. WE ARE.” She nodded with pursed lips. Her faint whimper of repining nearly pierced his heart, but he kept working at removing all the rocks from on top and left of her being careful to not disturb the boulder. “Okay, Sam. This is it. We have to cut your suit away, so the boulder stays put.” She nodded with closed eyes. “You’ll depressurize. So Ground suggests that as I cut, I apply suit tape. Between your tape and mine, I think we’ll get by.” “Duct tape. Fixes everything,” she smirked. “Don’t use yours. You may need it. Then what? We both die? No.” “Good thing I outrank you,” he winked. “Now as soon as you’re free, cover the tape. Apply pressure.” She motioned him closer. He put his helmet on hers. Tears fell toward her ears. A weak smile faded as she mouthed the words, I love you . Words never spoken. Two large splashes hit his visor and rolled downward as he lowered her protective visor. He drew a heart in the thin layer of dust. “Ed, this is ground control. You need to proceed.” “Copy.” The cutting tool sliced the thick outer fabric and layers with more ease than Ed expected. The duct tape held. Painstaking patience set her free, while the rover never moved faster. Once in the airlock, they listened to the cheers of Ground and smiled as they removed helmets and gloves. With the red light still signaling their need to wait in the airlock, Ed knelt and pulled away the silver duct tape observing just how close the tubing came to being crushed--how close her leg . . . He wound the tape into a crude band and slipped it on her left finger. “I love you, and I don’t care who knows or what it costs us. I love you and I want you to be mine forever, starting now.” She shook her head, yes. They embraced. Years later they sat on a bench having retired and celebrated many anniversaries. He fiddled with the duct tape band still on her hand. They looked at each other and remembered. They would never get over the moon. The following day they flew to Houston. Ed held a duplicate ring in his chest pocket. A time capsule would be placed on Mars. Each astronaut present had been asked to bring an item from their missions which would inspire the crew once they landed on Mars. Sam stood as her name was called and crossed the stage. “Well, I almost died up there on the moon. Rocks fall, stuff happens, but you always see each other through.” She held up a patch of her suit with it’s large, jagged tear. The crowd there clapped as she put it inside the time capsule. Ed had joined her, and he held up the duct tape wedding band and her left hand holding the original. "She wouldn’t let me put the real one in, but this duplicate is proof that when all goes wrong, duct tape fixes anything." Their story had been heralded as one of the great love stories at NASA. The crowd laughed and clapped. Ed added, “We will never be over the moon. But we are so hopeful for Mars to find love too.” He placed the duplicate inside the time capsule and kissed his moon souvenir. She kissed him back as she showed off her duct tape band.


I've painted him over a dozen times. I guess this is what true love feels like. With each portrait I believe I get closer to him, knowing him both personally and physically. I know the exact degree his eyes turn down, and the angle at which his eyebrows arch. I know the color of his skin at the tip of his nose, and the exact shade it turns once it's dark. I understand the way his hair falls over his face and how it blows in the wind. I know how to capture his curled lip when he tells a lie, and I know the secret he hides. Each portrait I think I understand why he did it. Men get bored easily and forget what they have right in front of them. But women like me will never lose sight of that, I know this for sure because I glide my brush over the canvas to highlight the side of his cheek. I don't think many of my first pieces captured him very well. That was before I thoroughly studied him. I started off having him pose for me, but he got restless easily and that made him hard to see. So, I took a couple of photographs and worked from those instead. "I think you got my nose wrong," he pointed out early on. It's always the nose. After the 10th session, I begged him to sit for one more portrait. He was hesitant, but eventually agreed. "I don't understand why you keep doing this," he said when I was on his lips. "Perfection," "You've got a ton of perfectly good ones already," "I'm not aiming for good. Anyone can do good." "So what, you want to be great?" I put my brush down and looked over at him from behind the canvas. His eyes moved to meet mine, never breaking his pose. "I want people to see your face and know you are a man worth painting a thousand times. They should be able to count the exact number of hairs on your chin. They'll look into your eyes and see you looking right at me, and they will know our entire lives story." In the end of course, it turned out he wasn't worth a single painting at all. And our story was one that had upped and ended, possibly doomed right from the start. In a whirl, I stopped painting him with an air of love and rather one of regret. Regret that I didn't see it coming. "You're still making more?" He scoffed after walking in on portrait number 82. I've come to the point where I can paint him by memory, though I still look over at him every now and again to see if I could capture a glimpse of remorse. "I'll make as many as I need to," "Okay," he chuckled. "Whatever you need." He shook his head and walked out. I don't think it's an obsession, really. It's a desire for the truth, the urge to know. It takes over and I've got to get it out somehow. There are far worse ways I could be dealing with this, I think I'm handling it in a rather healthy way. I could totally lose my mind instead. --- I had to see her today. Out of all the women he could've chosen, he picked one with easy access to my own home. An old college friend of ours, I don't quite remember which one of us introduced her first. I first became suspicious of them when I noticed something different in his eyes while I was painting them. It wasn't anything physical, only a feeling. "That's a very nice portrait," she said, pointing to the one I had hanging in the foyer. I only smiled. "I could never be an artist," she continued to say. "But I'm glad you find it so... fulfilling." She walked away before she saw the look of disgust on my face. Dinner was awful. Besides the fact that I find most of my husband's friends to be the biggest bores I've ever met, I just couldn't get it out of my head that the two of them might be playing footsie under the table. There was no real way for me to check without making a scene, so I did what artists do best- observe. I spent the rest of that dinner studying their body language, eye contact, facial expressions. I wasn't looking for any new information, it had already been confirmed the two of them were a thing. I mean I guess I was only just trying to make myself upset by watching them. There's a sort of comfort in being sad, in feeling like the only one there for you is yourself. I don't understand what he sees in her. She makes a perfectly fine friend, but not even one I would like to spend all my time with. She's not even the type of friend I'd invite to my birthday party, a pity invite, maybe. Her looks have nothing to do with it, she's a very pretty woman. But oh, she's just so dull! Not a single piece of her is unique or genuine. And that comment about being an artist? The nerve. I played with my food while she droned on about the legacy of Pina Bausch. Everyone paid attention like she was the most interesting woman in the world, but I saw right through her. She isn't the only one who reads the New Yorker. Even her fashion is uninspired, coming straight off a store mannequin or magazine catalogue. The proof came from a series of letters sent back and forth between them, and then eventually an eyewitness account from my sister. I found out about the letters through a postal friend of mine, who risked losing his job to bring some of the sealed envelopes to me. I never got to read any of them, but I could only imagine what they said. My sister caught them a few weeks later. She was visiting a friend two towns over when she saw them sitting close together in the park. His arm was around her while she laid her head on his shoulder. I was so upset that night I painted my first fiery landscape. The dinner was over after what seemed like hours, and I excused myself to the kitchen to do the dishes. One by one our guests began filing out, saying goodbye on their way past the kitchen and to the front door. Once I put away the last plate, I walked into the living room where the two of them where whispering over the fireplace. She was holding a book who's title I couldn't read. "Oh darling," my husband said when he saw me. "We were just talking about possibly setting up a book club with the rest of the group, is that something you'd be interested in?" "Sounds nice," I forced a smile. "You're so smart and well read, I bet you'd add a lot of unique insight to our conversations." She giggled. She might as well just call me stupid. --- I resorted back to some of my older portraits and photographs of him so I could paint those instead. It hurt to much painting him in his present state, the nose that's smell her hair, the eyes that have seen her whole, and the lips that say nothing but sweetness and light to her. I wonder how many of the jokes he used on me he's now telling her. And I wonder if he looks at her the same way he looked at me when I was fresh and new. Days went by and I locked myself away for hours, painting portrait after portrait after portrait. Of course it only drove him further away, the time spent in confinement was time permissible for him to be with her. I just wanted him back. Eventually I switched to drawing, and I tore from page to page, making dozens of portraits at a time. In my frenzy I ripped one out too hard and tore right through his face. Even as my creation I ruined him. Maybe I was driving myself to madness. Maybe my madness is what drove him away. The portraits started to pile up against each other, they surrounded me and I was in a sea of him. After another long day of painting I collapsed. He found me later that night and for the first time in a while, rushed to my side. "Darling, this needs to stop," he begged. We looked around in horror at the hundreds, if not thousands, of portraits filling up the space around us. As much as I've tried, I can't bring myself to stop. Because in these portraits, he still loves me. And in these portraits, I find that I still love myself.


April 15, 2017. It is always darkest before the dawn. River could still hear her grandfather’s words as she quietly stepped out of the front door 15 minutes before the sun was to rise. She was out here specifically to watch the sunrise. A moment she and her grandfather use to enjoy together. With his passing two weeks ago, she wanted to start to make this a tradition for herself. It didn’t need to be every day, but she wanted to continue the act of watching the sunrise and remembering the good moments of life. This is what she and her grandfather would do. She could remember that her grandfather would get her up early, he would have his coffee ready and hot chocolate for her. He would already have a blanket set up for her outside, and it would always be warm even if it was one of the coldest mornings. Sometimes they would be outside too early and would listen to the animals beginning to wake up. They would listen to the changes in the air. They would watch as the last of the night light would leave the sky, and the temperature would dip to its lowest point. And then the first rays of the sunrise would show. The light would suddenly reemerge in the sky. Her grandfather would tell her that the sun was pulling in all the energy it could so that it could create a dazzling show for them. So that nothing else could take away from its spectacular self as it brought the day to the world. River knew that it was not the truth, but it sure seemed like it was a good way to look at things. March 12, 2020 . It is always darkest before the dawn. River was called to an emergency meeting. She hated anything that had to be told to them in an overwhelming way. And emergency meetings were never calm and organized. She took a deep breath and told herself that it was just the dark moment where she would hate everything of the unknown to come. When you don’t know what is coming you can’t prepare for it. You can’t tell yourself all will be fine because you know that it is just a lie. How can the sunshine if the next step is the brightest moment you ever see? How can you suck up the energy to shine when you don’t even know what type of energy there is to pull from? Her entire office crowded into the small conference room. Only during emergency meetings do they all need to be in this space. And it seems with all this talk of a major illness going around they would have found a better way to do this meeting. The last thing River wanted was to get sick. She had some important presentations coming up, and she did not want to have to do them while fighting off whatever this thing was. As she sat in the room she looked around at some of her colleagues wondering what they have all been up to since some of them were closer than they had ever been. She wanted to mention personal space, but then that seemed a little rude. The regional manager stepped into the conference room and everyone went silent. “Hello everyone. I am going to make this quick because as of noon today we will need to begin to follow social distancing protocols. And as of tomorrow at 2 pm this floor is closed.” There were murmurs and some raised ends of sentences that buzzed all around the room. “I know this is sudden, but it would seem that we will need to close the office doors for at least two weeks. I want you all to take home the office laptops you have been issued. If you have not please see Sophia immediately so we can get you one.” She paused. “I know some of you are working on projects, please continue this. There are a few presentations next week, these will ... I am not sure yet. They may be postponed or we may just work on a new way to do them. Keep working on them, and we will...see what happens.” She paused again. River could see that she was working on fumes. That she had been working really hard and understanding and organizing how to continue the work of the company in a new format. “I want everyone to make sure that you bring all your contact information home so that you can continue working.” She paused, took a deep breath, “Does anyone have any questions?” Noise erupted. It was like the room was sucked clean of energy. River suddenly couldn’t breathe. She stopped to look around her at what looked like murmuring clowns. There were faces of panic, concern, mortification, and complete confusion. The noises all merged into one. Everyone was trying to be heard, and yet no one was at the same time. There was no way anything could occur with this crazed mass in this small office space. Quietly, River slid her chair back, and she turned to step out. She stood behind her chair and lifted it back, tucked it under the table. She breathed out and took a slow and low breath in. She turned and stepped away from the chaos. She moved to the door and stepped out into what was fresh air. Into where there was space to be and to breathe. River went to her desk, where everything was nicely organized. She unlocked her cabinet to the left of her desk and pulled out her work laptop. She placed it into her work bag. She then grabbed her notepad where she kept all of her notes and random contacts that were not already saved to her phone. She glanced around; the floor still quiet. And she realized that while the world broke into the chaos she just emerged from, she was going to go home and be safe. She was going to be able to keep her normal routines, just all from the comfort of her own space. June 15, 2021. It's always darkest before the dawn. Working from home was not as amazing as River had hoped. It was nice at first, and then it just dragged on. She was still productive. She was able to complete projects and to work on her presentations. She found new platforms that made her simple old plain presentations more fun and eye-catching. But she also found that in order to fill all the time she used to use to go do things, she was working. Or she was working on making things better for work. It was like work took over her entire life, because, well...there was nothing else to do quite frankly. River just wanted to feel more normal again. In fact, she was beginning to miss the office. Not necessarily all the people, but the ability to leave her space, to sit in different locations that are not just 15 feet from her own kitchen. To use an office kitchen, as gross as it may be. River had a meeting with her boss in 15 minutes. She was pretty sure it was to just go over the new project she received. It did not look too overwhelming, and in fact, look like a typical process she had done many times. In some ways, River felt like this project was her specialty. River looked over the overview one more time to just make sure. She figured the meeting would be quick with the boss and then she could just go about her day. Maybe she would go for a walk today to get out and catch some fresh air no that things were calming down. Maybe actually get some food and eat it in the park. Be outside for a few minutes without a mask. River watched as the time was ticking closer to the meeting time. She opened the zoom meeting early. She hated to be late, and she feared that the link would be wrong if she waited until too close to the meeting time. The link took her straight to the waiting for the host screen. She checked her water, and that her pen worked. And then the screen changed. Her boss was signing in early too. “Hi, River. As usual, you are prompt.” “Hello. I don’t like to be the last one in. That is sure. Kind of sucks the air out of my lungs when I do that.” Her boss smiled. “So, I asked to meet you today because we are going to start bringing people back into the office. And some we are going to leave on work at home. I know that you have been super productive from home. Almost too productive. I have seen some of your email times are really late. I know that schedules are weird over the last 16 months, but you have to take time for yourself.” “Oh, yes, that is something I know I need to work on. You said some. What are you thinking about for me?” “Well, that’s just it. I really want you to come into the office. I think I need you here. Mainly because...I need you to head a task force to ensure we are all following the new protocols and policies.” She paused. River’s face did not change. “Am I asking for too much?” “You are not! I was just thinking that I missed those darn walls in that building. I have no problem coming in. What do you need me to do?”


# The Salesman  *He came again today* “Hello sir, welcome to Mercedes Benz” *Every week... and always on my shift.* **“Thank you kindly young man”** *Today he had decided on a straw cowboy hat and an obnoxiously big and fake Bert Reynolds mustache.* *...* *He’s really started to phone it in* "What can I help you with today sir?” *A passerby might look, and think this man was doing a bit, like there is no way this... costume is meant to come across as genuine.* **“Well I’m here to buy a car of course”** *But I know better.* ** *As we pass, I take my shot.* “Sir, while I grab some paperwork please help yourself to some complimentary bagels and coffee” *Please... just once...* **“Thank you, but no thank you. I’ve already ate”** *Of course you have.* “I see... well they are there if you change your mind” *You mother...* “Thank you, but I won’t” *Fucker.* ** “So this is our 2022 A Class, it runs about $36,000 with added on GPS at satellite tracking” *Oh I see, seems a little small, do you have anything bigger?* “I see, but it seems a bit too compact, do you have any larger vehicles?” *He’s switching it up.* “Right this way sir” \-- *I could have been a librarian* “This is our 2023 EQB-Class” *If I just would have actually taken the classes and passed the test* **“Now this is a vehicle.”** *2 hours a day of studying, for maybe 3 months.* “Would you like to take a test drive? All I would need is your license for record keeping” *Oh, that won’t be necessary* **“Oh, that won’t be necessary...”** *Of course not.* **“But might I look around the inside though?”** *What is to gain from this?* “Of course sir” *Three months was all it would have took.* ** *An hour and a half...* ”Are there any other models you would like to look at sir?” *Every time...* **“No I think that’s about it, thank you young man”** *Did he pick that amount of time intentionally?* “Very good sir” *Like he calculated that that was just enough time to show “genuine” interest* “And are you interested in purchasing any of the vehicles you saw today?” *Watching the dealership with binoculars and timing each purchase to find the average a customer took.* **“The more I thought about it, I think the 2022 A Class might actually be perfect”** *Is this madness?* .... *Is this purgatory?* **“And I would like to purchase it please”** *Or something else?* “...Of course sir, let me grab the paperwork” *Well, whatever it is...* **“Thank you young man”** *Here.* **“...But while you do”** *It.* **“...Are those bagels still complimentary?”** *Comes.* “Of course sir” ** *I don’t grab paperwork. About three months ago I stopped. And I’m surprised it took me that long.* **“****Hey sport, how’s the sale going****?"** *And yet my manager still asks.* “Grabbing the paperwork now Larry.” *Every week.* **“Wonderful, which model?”** *Is he a part of this hell?* “2022 A Class” *Is everyone?* **“You’ll see a solid commission off that”** *My wife? My kids?* “As long as he doesn’t run out” *Larry laughs... as if this isn’t a joke he’s heard dozens of times.* **“Good one bud”** *Oh God... Am I becoming part of it?* ** *Sometimes it’s on a napkin, sometimes it’s written on an empty coffee cup.* **“Dearest Salesman,”** *Today it was on a piece of the secretary’s letter stock.* **“I regret to inform you that I will be unable to purchase your fine vehicle today”** *After the first month I began storing them.* **“I have been notified that my dearest grandmother has taken a nasty spill”** *Piles of notes, sitting in a cabinet drawer in my office.* **“and must be transported to the medical facilities post haste.”** *To show to who?* **“However you will be pleased to know,”** *Larry?* **“that I will consider this dealership”** *My wife?* "**and you specifically”** *The FBI?* **“For all future purchases”** *No...* **“P.S.”** *Not yet.* **“Thanks for the bagel.”** ... *See you again next week.