“Freak!” “Look at her!” “Hey, ever seen a comb?” she hurled a brush at me. This is what it’d been like ever since I joined the new school. They didn’t like my teeth, because they were too long. They didn’t like my hair, because it was too unruly. They didn’t like my face, because it was too ugly. They didn’t like my voice, because it was too harsh to be a girl’s voice. They didn’t like my clothes, because they were too old. They didn’t like me, because I wasn’t like them. I walked home, sweat running down my back and drenching my clothes. My vision swam. I could still hear them laughing. The laugh echoed in my head, growing louder and louder, drowning out the noise on the road. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to walk in once more and be met by an empty house, my father off on another of his “errands”, after which he would come back and hurl things around, destroying our house. *His* house, actually, as he so often reminded me. So I sat down on the footpath, my vision growing more and more blurred, which is why I didn’t at first notice the wetness on my hand. When I did, I flinched and pulled away, rubbing my eyes. As my surroundings came into view, I saw him. He, too, had scars on his body. One of his ears seemed to have a chunk missing. He moved closer and licked my hand again. He’d lost his fur in some places. But his eyes, they were the first thing I saw. They were bright and shone with the innocent spark of hope and trust that reminded me of a photo- the only photo I had- of me as a baby. I took it out of my pocket, the little yellowed piece of glossy paper. I’d torn my father out of it years ago. There it was, that spark of hope, the spark that had shivered and died when I saw my mother beaten to death with a bottle when I was three. I never even got to know her. All I knew was that one day she was back, and my father didn’t like that. The dog cocked his head at my sob. I patted his head. He flinched slightly at my touch, then lay down on the dusty footpath and leaned into my leg. I chuckled and resumed patting him, my hands becoming dirtier with every stroke. “Where have you come from?” I whispered, smiling. In response, he exposed his belly for me to rub. I felt a prickling feeling on the back of my neck. I turned around. A woman was watching me. Her dark eyes seemed to bore into me, to search my soul, to look into the deepest recesses of my heart. I wiped my eyes self consciously. No one seemed to notice her except for me. People walked within two inches of her, oblivious to her existence. But then again, who noticed the crying nine-year-old on the footpath either? She smiled at me and gestured for me to come to her. The dog licked my hand again. I stood up, then hesitated. She nodded at me encouragingly. I moved forward, the dog padding along behind me. She whispered to me. I frowned. “Sorry?” “You never know...” I moved closer. Her words, the way she spoke, seemed to draw me in. “You never know what you are capable of...” she said, hesitating. She looked around. Still, no one had noticed our strange interaction. “Yes?” She leaned forward. “Till you have truly known love,” she whispered. “What do you-” I stuttered as she walked away and turned the corner. I hurried after her. “I don’t-” I started, turning after her. She was nowhere to be seen. I turned around, almost expecting the dog to be gone too, and for this to be another of my daydreams. But he was there, wagging his tail at me, his tongue hung out in a grin. I sat on the footpath, the dog lying beside me, and did my homework till the light faded. From then on, I had a friend. I named him Phoenix. I took him to the public tap once a week, drenched him, much to his annoyance, and wiped him out with an old shirt of mine. Soon enough, his skin started to improve and his fur started growing back. Every day, when I came back from school, he was there. Waiting. Wagging his tail. Hanging out his tongue in a doggy grin. We sat on the footpath, me doing my homework or studying, Phoenix romping or taking a nap. We scrounged the trash cans for food, sometimes sharing it, sometimes fighting for it. Every so often, I snuck him home when my father went out, and we shared my bed and took a nap. We’d go to little shops, Phoenix waiting outside, and I’d buy us bread with money I’d steal. He licked away my tears when I came to him after getting beaten by my father. I told him all about myself, about my childhood, my school, my lack of friends, everything. And he was there. Listening. Wagging his tail. Hanging out his tongue in a doggy grin. I grew up. Phoenix grew old. Side by side, together, we journeyed the twisted path life lays out for everyone. And my path was slightly brighter because Phoenix was with me. But life always throws in that unexpected curveball every once in a while. For me, that unexpected curveball came on my seventeenth birthday. As usual, I went to school in my same old clothes (nothing new there) and nobody even knew it was my birthday. Except for Phoenix, of course. That morning, he’d romped beside me as I went to school, just like Mary’s proverbial lamb. He always knew. As soon as the bell rang to go home, I grabbed my bag and made a beeline for the exit. I almost ran home, imagining Phoenix’s face when he saw me. We always bought something extra special on my birthday. But when I reached my street, panting, and looked around, nobody was there. “Phoenix?” I whispered, grinning. Nothing. “Stop playing games, joker,” I said, raising my voice. And then I heard it. A whine. Phoenix? I repeated, my amusement now turning to dread. Another whine. I ran across the street. There, in the alley opposite, lay Phoenix. His legs were twisted grotesquely, and his head had been bashed in. Nearby lay a bloody metal rod. I dropped my bag and sank down onto my knees. “Who did this?” I asked, my eyes filling. He whined, then wagged his tail one last time. And then the spark in his eyes was gone. Nobody was there. Nobody saw my most loyal, my *only,* friend die. It was just me, and the roaring in my ears that didn’t seem to cease. It was like the night the spark died, all over again. But Phoenix, he didn’t give me a spark. He’d ignited a flame. And it was gone. My best friend was gone. Wiping my tears, I scrounged for a kerchief in my bag. And there, to my left, lay an all too familiar green bottle. My mind went blank. I didn’t even notice picking up my bag and walking. One moment I was holding Phoenix, and the next, I was walking into my house. My father lay on the couch, the same green bottle in his hand, chugging for all he was worth. “Hey...dad.” “What, you need something? Since-since when d’you call me *dad?”* “A stray dog, uh, passed away. Did you- did you see what happened?” There was a pause. “Oh, that son of a bitch? Yeah,” he slurred, “Yeah, he was barking at me ‘cause- ‘cause- I dunno, ‘cause he’s a little bitch. So I took care of him.” “You- you killed him because he *barked at you*?” “Yeah, yeah he- wait, why you care about some stupid *dog?”* “He was- HE WASN’T A STUPID DOG! HE WAS MORE OF MY FAMILY THAN YOU ARE!” He stood up, but I didn’t care anymore. “You really think you’re gonna yell at me in *my own house?* You ungrateful little-” he hurled his bottle at me. It shattered on the wall behind me. “I raised you! Your mother was a bitch too, like you, wasn’t she? Didn’t want nothing to do-” “She came back, though didn’t she?” “I RAISED YOU! I WAS YOUR FATHER, YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING-” “YOU’RE NOT MY FATHER!” He picked up a bottle and advanced on me. By impulse, I ducked down, my hands searching the ground. I got up. There was a resounding crash as he hit me with the bottle, just as I spliced his neck open with a shard of glass. And there, lying on the ground, bleeding, darkness eating at the corner of my vision, I understood. “You never know what you are capable of... till you have truly known love.” I love you, Phoenix.


Angela opened her eyes to a new day not knowing if it were morning. There were no windows in her room, and it could have been the middle of the afternoon, or even midnight. She heard no sounds except her own breathing, and when she awoke she inhaled and exhaled heavily, as if she had just completed a marathon race instead of having slept for hours. Perhaps she had slept for days. She had stopped wondering about time months ago. Now she simply slept for as long as she was able, then stayed awake for as long as was necessary. She knew she would have to eat, that they would soon be coming with food, and had she felt stronger she might have spat it back at them as she had done when they first brought her here. But she had swallowed that rage a long time ago. Now Angela ate whatever morsels they gave her, and recently she had to restrain herself from thanking them. She feared the day might come when she would feel grateful that they had allowed her to live, when she might find herself smiling at them as if she understood and accepted the perfect correctness of her captivity. She looked at herself in the small cracked mirror above the sink. Although her hair was stringy and unwashed, she remembered how golden it had shimmered in the sun. Her face was still quite pretty, and once she had heard one guard tell another he had never seen eyes quite that blue. The other whispered what a pity it was. If only she had a piece of paper, a pen, even a crayon. Maybe this time she would show them that she could create something useful and lasting that mattered to them, something that in turn would make her matter. When Angela had first arrived they had eagerly granted the request of the eighteen year old girl and waited to see what gifts her imagination might offer them. She had succeeded only in producing a few formless scrawls that they said were not art, and some rhymeless gibberish that they told her was not poetry. They took away the paper, the pens, and the paint brushes. Not long ago, the tall blond guard who wore the keys around his neck had asked her if she might like to sing. Any tune would do, he told her. “Please, oh please, let me try!” Angela had begged. The next day he brought to her room a small cassette recorder with a blank tape. “Perhaps we will find the song bird in you where we were unable to find the artist. Sing, and we promise to listen,” he assured her. For days Angela sang alone in her room, remembering what her mother had sung to her many years ago. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird . . .” A week later she handed the cassette to the man with the keys and simply said, “Please . . .” He stuffed the tape into his pocket and left without a word. The next day the guard sat alongside her bed and informed her that he and the others had decided that she was no song bird. For a moment his words had sounded like an apology. She knew she would never see the tall guard again. The wasted papers that Angela had filled with nonsense and the inarticulate squawks she had tried to pass off as music had convinced them that further efforts on their part would be foolish. From that day forward the guards who silently delivered her food seemed unwilling to even look at her. Angela heard the key slip into the lock on the other side of the heavy door. She no longer pretended to be asleep when they came, because they did not care whether she were sleeping or awake. One of them always waited outside as the other entered. She heard the heavy jingle of keys and looked up. The keys were around the guard’s neck. “You,” she said, but the word was only a statement of fact, not sparked with the warmth that accompanies the recognition of a familiar face. Once uttered, the word sounded idiotic. “Yes,” he answered, closing the door behind him. He did not look at her as he set the tray of food on the stand alongside her bed. She had expected no further conversation, and when he spoke again his words startled her. “They told me to say the other guard had caught a flu.” He pulled up the small wooden chair and sat, although the chair was too small and he seemed not to know whether to fold his legs. “There is no flu. They wanted us to talk.” His statement was ludicrous. She had not had a conversation with him in months, and those few she remembered had been pitifully brief and one-sided. “I don’t understand,” she said as she selected a small bread crust on her tray. She had learned to keep her responses short, for the guards tired of her quickly. “I’d like to know about God,” he said as if this were meant as an answer. “Tell me how you feel about God. Tell me about your religion, your beliefs.” “I have no belief in God. I have no religion. Don’t you have some sort of records about that?” She felt immediately sorry she had asked, but the guard ignored the question anyway. He fidgeted in the small chair. “You’re an atheist, then? Or an agnostic? You have opinions regarding God’s existence, or the lack of it?” He sounded almost hopeful. “I'm an apathist. I don’t much think about it,” she answered as she nibbled at the crust. She picked up a slab of egg yolk with her left hand, ignoring the silverware, leaned her head back, and dropped the yolk into her mouth. Her response oddly pleased him, although he did not smile. “An apathist? That was a joke you just said. Admittedly, not a very good one, but it was a joke. Then you have a sense of humor. Tell me another joke.” Angela looked hard at the man, not certain about how earnest her guard’s question was. “A joke? You mean like why did the chicken cross the road?” The absurdity of her question seemed to increase the guard’s excitement. “Yes! Yes! Tell me, why did the chicken cross the road?” There was anticipation in his voice as if he sincerely were interested in the chicken’s intentions, and when he leaned toward Angela for her response his face revealed the hint of a smile. “Perhaps the chicken was an apathist,” she said. The guard’s smile disappeared as quickly as if it were erased. “That isn’t funny. I'm sorry, but that isn’t funny at all.” His tone became flat, expressionless. He sounded like a man keeping some kind of score. No points for humor. Sorry. Next category. “Can we talk politics?” he asked. “No.” “Sociology? Science? History? Law? Philosophy?” His questions now had become a formality, a check list to be completed, filed, and forgotten. “No . . . No . . . No . . . No . . .” Although Angela could not remember ever having had a discussion this long during her stay here, she wanted this conversation to end. “Perhaps I could tell you why the philosopher crossed the road? No, I guess you’re right. That wasn’t very funny either. I suppose you'll be leaving now?” Her question had anticipated his next words. The tall guard rose from the chair with difficulty, trying to maintain his dignity when he could not get up with his first attempt. “I have one more question for you, Angela,” he said. He had never called her by her name before, and his doing so struck her as odd. He walked to the foot of her bed and turned toward her. “Do you know why you are here?” He asked this without malice or emotion, with only the desire to know her answer, as he had wanted to know about song birds and chickens. “I'm here because you see me as a useless bird.” Having said the words, she knew they had always been on her tongue waiting to be spoken. “I beg your pardon?” “You know, the sparrow who can no longer fly becomes useless to the other sparrows, a burden to them. I've broken my wing, isn’t that right? And the flock has no further need of me.” “I'm impressed,” the guard answered. “That is quite a creative analogy from one who knows so little of creativity.” He sat on the edge of the bed and moved close to Angela as if to reveal a secret. Instead, he reached under the blanket and grabbed hold of her right hand, yanking it out from where she had kept it hidden. He held her arm straight up and the pain caused her to wince. “But this isn’t exactly a broken wing, is it, Angela? It’s a wilted arm, a useless limb. It is not pleasant to look at, it serves no function, and it belongs to you. It is you.” The words came in furious bursts now, like machine-gun pellets, and he shook her withered limb as he spoke. “You see yourself as a wounded sparrow, do you? What happens if we take that sparrow and tie her leg to a string and swing her around in circles in a desperate attempt to make her fly? She struggles against hope to use her wings, her useless wings, and meanwhile we swing her around and around and around, wasting our energy, wasting our time, and in the end when we stop swinging her she comes crashing down to earth anyway. Our time has been wasted, her hopes have been destroyed. What is the point? Why even bother?” He let go of her arm, allowing it to drop. For a moment Angela stared at the shrunken arm as if it were a foreign thing that did not belong in the bed with her. She spoke without removing her eyes from it. “A sparrow who can no longer fly can sing. And if she can’t sing, she can still feel, can still-” “- Love?” the guard interrupted. “That’s exactly right, Angela! We asked this sparrow to sing, and she could not! But we realized she may be capable of love. . . the kind of love that could only result in frustration for her. Because the real question is, is she capable of being loved? Do the words she writes encourage love? Does her beauty or intellect in any way inspire it? It is unlikely that anyone would even try to love her because of that hideous limb. Not that all physical impediments are repulsive. Perhaps if she were only blind . . .” “Stop . . . Please, stop . . .” Angela pleaded. Her brief taste of defiance had made her want to gag. “You want to cover your ears, don’t you? You want to block out the words, make me go away, maybe you would even like to strike me,” he continued. “But you can’t do it, can you? That limb just lies there like a dead weight. Do you see my point?” “I have my other arm . . .” “. . .whose only function is to hide its companion. No, Angela, I'm sorry, but the time has come for us to stop swinging the sparrow’s string.” His anger slowly dissolved and he fell silent for a moment. He attempted to hold her wilted hand in his, but she pulled it away. Instead he took her other hand. “But first I have something I want to show you, something you need to see.” He sat on the bed and placed her fingers on his left leg below the knee. “Rub your hand along my leg, Angela. Does the calf feel peculiar to you? Congenital defect, they called it, like they called yours. The leg is gone, at least from the knee down. Amazing what they can do with prosthetics today. But, you see, I have my particular talents. I happen to be quite good at drawing people out, at enabling them to find a way to compensate for their physical shortcomings. And I can be quite decisive when called upon to make the kind of decisions that others would find distasteful. No one ever asked me to sing, or to fly. But when they came for me, I simply told them what I could do.” Angela struggled to pull her hand free as her anger rose inside her like hot bile. “But you also decide who is to be exterminated! You decide who the state no longer regards as useful! What gives you the right--” “ This gives me the right!” he shouted, his breath hot on her face as he tapped her hand on the hard wood of his prosthetic leg. “This has forced me to find my usefulness to others, just as your pathetic limb has forced you to admit that you have none. And I have no intention of relinquishing my usefulness by allowing you to continue your hollow existence. I refuse not to matter!” The guard’s renewed anger seemed to embarrass him, and he turned away from Angela. He ran his fingers through his blond hair in an attempt to collect himself, and when he again looked down at his leg he noticed that Angela’s hand was grasping it. Angela knew he had been unaware of her touch until he had looked. When his eyes locked with hers, her mouth curled in a bitter smile. “I feel this,” she said as she ran the tiny hand of the wilted arm along his wooden leg. “I feel this with both of my hands, even the one you call useless. Tell me what you feel when I touch you. Does this prosthetic device extend all the way to your heart?” Angela tapped on the artificial limb as if she were expecting a reflexive kick. “A curious question,” he answered. “You might have made a fine idealist if you had believed in God.” She moved close to his face and whispered, “ . . . to get to the other side. That is why a chicken would cross the road, isn’t it?” He paused for a moment to look at her. “Such blue eyes,” he said. “Such exquisitely beautiful blue eyes.” He called for the guards to take her, and within moments three entered the room and another two waited by the doorway. She presented no struggle and went quietly with them. She wondered as they walked if one of them would take her hand. ####


I wake up to find myself in a strange alley. The walls seem to be made of brick, but their blue, and seem to illuminate themselves. The graffiti on the walls depict strange symbols that seem like they change shape and color every second. I realize what’s happening and quickly check all my sense. I can hear a soft ringing, my vision seems fine, there's a metallic taste in my mouth, there’s a sweet smell in the air, I can’t feel my sense of touch. I quickly get up and look behind me. There’s a bed inside a orange dumpster. The dumpster seems to be darker, as if it was absorbing light. I quickly check my pockets as the ringing in my ears gets louder. The only thing I pull out is a key that I don’t recognize. I turn around and I see it. It stares at me with his non-existent eyes. My heart starts pounding, it starts dragging his feet on the ground as he rounds the corner. “Follow it.” or that’s what she said to do. I slowly step towards the opening where it was standing and stare into the dark abyss of what was outside the alley. As I take a step into the abyss my sense of touch returns and immediately starts to register pain. I try not to yell out in pain, doing so would alert it that I didn’t find this place naturally. Suddenly it felt like something was watching me. Something was watching me, waiting for me to scream out. After five seconds the pain softened, now only feeling slightly sore in a few places. I suddenly felt myself being lowered into the abyss, when I was engulfed in darkness I felt my eyes close and then I blacked out. I awake in a forest. The trees seem to grow higher than any I have ever seen. The sky is a dark green and the ground around me seems normal. I once again quickly check all my senses. However this time it feels normal. I get up and see it sitting on a rock, watching me. It raises his arm and as it does so a tree starts to sprout out of his fingers. The tree quickly falls apart and it becomes sad. It starts to cry though he sheds no tears. I can hear it cry out for his parents but he isn’t making any noise. Suddenly the trees start to rot away, leaving nothing but a barren field. It looks up at me and gets off the rock. The rock breaks revealing two trapped skeletons within. It suddenly breathes life into them, and the skeletons get up, they start dancing and yelling at each other. They never want to see each other again but also cannot be separated, they both loved and hated each other at the same time. I sit down and it comes to sit down next to me. We watch as the two skeletons act out scenarios for hours. At the end of the final scenario the skeletons sit down next to each other and hold one another before the life it gave them leaves their hollow bones. It turns to me. I black out My hearing returned, despite still being dragged through the winds of the dream world. I hear the sounds of my subconscious as the being carrying me doesn’t make a sound. I can hear thoughts that I buried deep within the back of my mind attempting to talk to me, trying to break free from the prison that I locked them in. Then I hear her voice “.. the Greek philosopher had discovered a entire realm though he did not realize it... the Roman philosopher took his great grandfathers teachings and re discovered the dream realm, quickly learning it’s secrets... When he presented his findings the Emperor dismissed him as nothing more than a madman and sent him off... He continued to explore this dream realm until Ego-death got to him and his physical body died...”. The last part would’ve made me shiver if I had my sense of touch. Ego-death, I’ve seen what happens to people who undergo it. It’s just one of the risks of entering the dream world. The possibility to lose a sense is also there, or your ego getting hurt but not outright destroyed. Suddenly I hear something in a language I don’t understand and my hearing is once again taken. I awake in a bed. I check my senses. They all seem fine, but at the same time they feel a little off. I get up out of the bed and look around. I’m filled with nostalgia as I find I’m in my room from my childhood. Lego scattered in the floor, a messy dresser containing old clothes, old wind up toys lined up on a shelf, but something’s off. Just something about everything feels wrong, but I can’t determine what is wrong. I’m not given much time to think about it as the closet door opens. It comes limping out of it and motions for me to follow him. I take a step forward and it turns around, walking into the closet. I follow him into the closet and as I enter it the door closes behind me. It’s dark inside the closet until I see a faint glow from a place where the wall has been falling apart. I get on all fours and manage to fit through the small opening. The floor and walls start to feel like flesh the more I move through the small opening. It starts to smell of blood and eventually I start to see the light getting brighter. At the end I exit the small hole and find myself in a small alcove overlooking a giant chamber made of flesh. In the center a heart is covered in a black goop. Underneath the mass are being like him, bags of flesh around a base of bone with a mass of flesh that uses electrons and chemicals to control these bags of flesh covered in skin. They seem to gather black goop that falls off and use it to paint various things on the wall. I stare at the black goop on the heart and notice that the reflections on it are changing. Its telling the story of a boy who was very caring and showed compassion to everyone. He would often play in the forest behind is home, but would always come back. One day he wandered too far into the woods and got lost. He eventually saw a group of rabbits in the distance and went up to pet them before realizing there was something else nearby. Suddenly a pack of wolves jumped out and attacked the rabbits. All the boy could do was watch as the rabbits where eaten. He curled up into a ball and started crying. Eventually his dad found him and brought him home. After a few months he was once again lost in the woods and saw animals killing each other again. After he got older he started to see it and look at it as normal. He realized that this was nature and it needed to happen, animals killing each other for the greater good.. Eventually he grew into a man and became a man of science. He started to not see everything in black and white but also lost his sense of morality while doing so. He started seeing life not as something to be protected, but rather a means to meet the end of bettering mankind. He started to break down everything with science. When he was old he started to question whether he had made the right decisions. Ultimately he couldn’t say due to morality being so subjective that even he couldn’t say whether he was right or wrong. He was wrong and right. I turned and saw it crying before blacking out.


Yes, We Can! “Any questions? If there are no questions, we shall begin. Do I have a nomination for Chairperson... no? If not, I will assume the position... I will preside over the meeting. Now...” He rambled on for a good half hour. It was difficult to hear, so I got only part of what he was saying. We were seated on bar stools around a pool table, that doubled as a meeting table. The plywood top, usually used to keep the hurricane winds outside where they belong, was placed over the felt to keep any accidents from ruining it. One of Bill’s rules. Our meeting space shares a wall with the dispensary next door, and the people that work there play their music very loud. Loud enough so that when you’re playing pool, sometimes the balls start moving on their own. It a lot of fun on Halloween, but other times it’s really annoying. Crispin, we call him that cause he eats very few things, chicken nuggets being one of the things, and cookies, the other. How he remains alive is beyond any of us, but then that’s his problem, I guess. It don’t matter which kind of cookie either, like it does with the chicken. He’s partial to organic free range. I’ve spent a lot of time telling him that labels mean nothing. I saw a program about just that. They keep the chickens locked up until the last couple of days before they get made into whatever they make out of chickens. The chickens are so frightened by the daylight, they refuse to go outside. But it doesn’t seem to matter to Crispin where the cookies come from, or what they look like. He likes Oreos, and peanut butter cookies with real peanut butter, not those chips they use, the ones that look like baby’s tears. He says they taste like they are made of plastic. He says those little chips is like most things they claim tastes like chicken, if you don’t know what really good chicken tastes like. I could see his point, but those baby chips he’s talking about, aren’t made of peanut butter, they are butterscotch. When I pointed that out to him, he said it don’t matter, cause they all taste like he wants them to taste. I was going to ask but decided against it. I bring Martin along when we go to Bobby Joe’s. No one calls it that anymore since the fire. We all call it The Greasy Spoon; Bill don’t seem to mind. He’s just happy we all still come down, as it does take some time, getting used to that Smokey smell. It kind of lingers on your clothes for a few days, even after you wash um. It was Bill’s idea that we should enter the contest. Bill runs the place. He said he saw the contest advertised on the baking channel. I didn’t even know there was a baking channel, but Bill says its got quite a following, specially in England, which seemed counterproductive, as they have a more regimented sense of propriety. But then to each their own, I suppose. Bill said we should check out the channel, so Crispin did. None of the rest of us were all that enthusiastic, as we don’t really care much for cookies. Chicken and beer is fine, more than fine actually, no matter whether the chicken is freed or not. But cookies and beer? Most of us draw the line at. Especially the cookies with the fake chocolate chips. The chips keep falling off into the glass when you dunk them, and you get a real rush when you get down to the bottom, especially if you forgot they were there. And they are dangerous. If a whole lug of those chips lets go, and gets in your throat all at once, you could choke. Too much of a good thing turns out not to be such a good thing. Unless it’s chicken, Crispin says. Also, Marty, our softball catcher and manager, who washes dishes for Bill, now that his tab has reached the quarter of century mark. I don’t know how much that is, but it sounds like a lot. Bill said Marty would either have to stop commin in or start washing dishes. Mainly glasses since the fire, but then that’s where I was headin. The chocolate chips on the bottom, if not all drank after a time, under the bright lights, tend to stick, and he says getting the glasses clean is time consuming as hell, and his debt gets reduced, by the glass. I saw his point, and like I told him, I don’t much care for cookies, I’m more of a S’mores guy. Anyway, Crispin calls this meeting to discuss this contest. I’d talked with Bill to get the scoop, what with him having watched the baking channel and all. He says it is legit. The team that can make the largest cookie, edible of course, wins a trip for as many as six bakers to the Betty Crocker Bake Off in Minneapolis, the home of all kinds of flour and baking stuff, and beer. I think it was the beer that got everyone so enthusiastic about this baking stuff, everyone I think but Bill. They got these silos filled with grains they use for making beer, painted like cans of beer. A huge six pack the brochure says. I’d like to see that. Bill says it is a logistical nightmare though. The last several bake offs ended in everyone being disqualified for using materials not OK’d by the committee. He says they are real strict about stuff like that. He thinks they are afraid of stuff happening, like nuclear ovens and alien yeasts. He also says he’s given it some thought, and Crispin agrees, that the inflatable pool he has, would be just the thing. He says Crispin agreed to let us use his canoe paddles, and Marty said he’s got a line on some real powerful baking soda. Not the junk they got in stores he says, but the stuff from his stash that he used in the bathtub submarine races back in grade school, and up till now, couldn’t find a use for. He’s also donatin, a five-gallon ice cream tin of baking powder. He says his grandma is a hoarder, and she can’t pass up a deal. He says you couldn’t believe what’s down in the basement of her house. “She’s got ten years of cat litter, and don’t have a cat.” And he says she can’t park in the garage cause it’s full of toilet paper. Not the cheap see through stuff they got now, but the old stuff, that’s tough as a mechanics overalls. The real debating however didn’t begin until we was wondering about how to bake something that big. Apparently, according to Bill, the present champions, some girl scout troop from the Peninsula of Michigan, made a cookie five feet three and a quarter inches in diameter. And it was measured while the chocolate chips were still melty. Bill says it probably shrunk about an inch after it cooled, but still... Marty said he’d given it considerable thought as he has lots of time to think when he’s washing glasses, and came up with the way we can bake it. His brother Ronny has a hot air balloon. We wait until the Fourth of July. The contest isn’t till the seventh, or right around then, and the temperature is usually over a hundred, and the parking lot at the bowling alley is empty cause everyone is down at the parade. I don’t know how he knows this, but he says if we wait until about three in the afternoon, assuming the sun is shinin, the temperature he says on the asphalt will be somewhere around 175 degrees, which should take our dough about four hours to bake. Assuming he says, that Ronny can hit the parking lot. If he misses, he implied it could cause some real liability issues. Can’t blame him for being concerned about a thing like that. Marty thought it was a good idea, but then Ronny is his brother. I really didn’t care much; except I would like to see Ronny drop that thing from a hundred feet and hit anything he was aiming at. Got to get that high to miss the power lines. Suppose he could let some air out, but then if the wind picks up, he’s on the highway. Crispin said, that being he was nominated Chairperson by majority, it was up to him to decide if our plan had merit. I thought the whole Chairperson thing had kind of gone to his head, but then no one else wanted the job, so you go with what you got. We would need six of our ball team to work the cookie dough, and the remaining three will man the lines of the balloon, until Ronny gives them the signal. He’s the captain and knows about wind velocity and stuff like that, so no one objected. Overall I thought the plan was doable, and I really wanted to go to Minneapolis; anywhere really. We were to meet on July third at the Greasy Spoon to finalize everything. Make sure we had qualified ingredients; cause Bill says they do some kind of test to make sure we wasn’t cheatin. Being the Fourth was a Sunday, Herman our short stop said he and his brothers could man the ropes. We all hoped silently they’d be somewhat more capable than they were at playing outfield. It looked like things were comin together. The swimmin pool, we would set up where the pool table was, as we wouldn’t need a meeting table at that point. Bill said he thought the fire hose would reach that far, and if it didn’t, he had lots of pitchers that no one would use until after the parade anyway. It looked like even Crispin, who said because he was Chairperson, should get first taste, was ready and willing to go. No one objected about him havin first taste, but no one seconded his motion either. The time flew. The morning of the Fourth was somewhat colder than normal, but then the sun hadn’t really had a chance to make its self felt. We got everything to the Greasy Spoon, set up the pool, which surprisingly didn’t leak. Bill hauled the hose over, and Crispin started showin us how to use the paddles correctly. He said the J stroke would probably be the best, being the dough startin out might be a bit thin, but that as it thickened, the J would allow us to get the paddles out without damaging the pool or getting sucked into the goop. We figured him being Chairperson, he knew as much about paddling dough as anyone should, so we all nodded our heads like we understood. Ronny and the boys were out back firin up the balloon. Ronny said the winds might be a problem, so we’d better, “get a move on it.” Bill reminded everyone that we shouldn’t rush, as baking is an art that depends on quality ingredients and patience, especially when it comes to letting the dough get to its correct consistency and reach its fermentation potential. We were glad we had asked Bill to be our advisor. Not as prestigious as being Chairperson, but more meaningful by Greasy Spoon standards. We paddled like crazy, wrestled the concoction into a plastic fifty-five-gallon garbage can and loaded it onto the balloon as the first black clouds rolled in. The heat generated by the burners heating the air was supposed to help the rising process, Bill interjected. Ronny, although somewhat discouraged, was intent on seeing if he could hit the parking lot while missing the high-powered electric wires and the highway, no matter the wind. The boys dropped the ropes unexpectedly as the first thunderclap was preceded by a Zorro slash in the purply green western sky. Ronny despite everything seemed to be having the time of his life, even though the wind blew him away from the bowling alley parking lot towards Speedy-Mart. The rest of the team decided we’d almost completed more work that day, than we’d done in the past two weeks, so we went into the Spoon to celebrate. Bill said the first pitcher was on him if everyone agreed to not eat cookies, as Marty hadn’t showed up. He had to go to his grandma’s and help her unload her new finds. The rain sounded nice hitting the old tin roof. First time we’d been able to hear ourselves talk, or think for that matter, in some time. It being Sunday, the dispensary was closed, and the music men were at the parade. Crispin yelled, “Thanks be to God,” for a reason we weren’t quite sure of, but then we were never definitely sure of most things. We all agreed after complaining about the weather, and not being able to find Ronny, to give it a shot next year. Kind of make it a ritual of sorts, possibly a festival, maybe even an event. Bill liked the idea. He said maybe by next year the smell would have leveled off and everything wouldn’t taste like chicken. He’s a lot smarter than he looks.


I stand in a sea of congratulations, against the current of beaming parents and my friends--the two crash against each other like waves, greeting and mixing and loving like water on its way to the shore. Except there is no shore. There is only the sea, and me, the lone lighthouse standing amongst the water, scanning its longing light towards the horizon. Craning my neck, I stand on my tiptoes to see above all the commotion. My ears are already ringing, and that isn’t good. What if I don’t hear the-- “Jan?” I turn sharply, excitement nudging its way through my gut. But it is only Reid, his makeup already halfway gone. He cradles not one but two bouquets of flowers in his arms. He’s always had a loving family. “Good job,. You did wonderful,” he smiles, flashing his metallic teeth. I smile back, and he rushes off, probably to help strike the set. It would make sense; he dreams of becoming a professional performer one day, and to do that, he must earn himself a rightful place in our director’s Book of Favorite Actors--which, isn’t a real thing, but it might as well be. I sure as hell wouldn’t be in it. But I turn back to my lighthouse duties, and I can’t help but notice that the crowd around me has thinned quite a bit. I bite my lip, a little put off by that; everyone who came to see the show is out of the theater by now, and yet-- “Are you going to iHOP after this, Jan?” Lori stops and taps me on the shoulder--she will always rap you on the shoulder when she wants your attention. “Maybe,” I reply, and it’s true. I’ll probably end up going whether I like it or not. Lori trots off in the same direction as Reid, and still I stand. I can practically feel my feet becoming rooted to the floor as I wait. I realize that I am a rather empty lighthouse, perhaps abandoned; no family of mine has shown up tonight. But there is still hope. Yes, but that hope seems to be slowly pulling itself from my grasp. The crowd has become one singular person now, dwindled down to nearly nothingness. And this person is simply another girl who was in the production with me. We lock eyes, exchanging a silent understanding. I’ve never spoken to this girl, but in that moment, I feel as though we are sisters of some kind, united by loneliness. But then she turns away, and slowly walks back into the theater, where the rest of the cast will surely be celebrating. And now there is nothing but the lighthouse. My lip quivers as an overwhelming stab of despair punctures me through, and I look at my hands. My cheeks flush with some kind of embarrassment; of course he didn’t show up. After a moment of consideration, I turn on my heel and march, away from the theater and away from the deserted ocean. My feet take me farther into the school, through hallways and past classrooms that stand as abandoned as I, until my character shoes come to a halt in front of the gymnasium. I enter, letting the familiar smell of sports and rubber hit me. I breathe it in solemnly. After all, it was in gym class where we’d first met. Miserably I make my way over to the bleachers and begin to climb, up and up until I am all the way at the top. The plastic resonates with my every footstep, the vibrations seeming to scream *you idiot, you loser, you pitiful thing*. I drop onto a bench and stare down, across the empty expanse of the basketball court. Half of the lights above me have been turned off for the night, and a chill runs across my arms, but I don’t mind. The air seems to shimmer with the memory of his smile, and it is almost as if I see an apparition, a glimpse of that first day with him. The way those bright, ugly lights had captured his eyes, swimming in their blue fishbowls like gems dropped to the bottom of the sea. His hair, coarse and blond, and how he’d let me run my fingers through it nearly every day. He was an angel on earth. And I’d never fallen in love before. I refused to. But it seemed that he’d captured me. And there was a part of me, a little sliver of my heart that led my skeptic of a brain to believe that there could be something there, something beautifully sweet, something just as gushy and gooey as they made these things seem in the movies. But my lighthouse beam had not shone on his smile tonight, and despite my hopeful wishes that he would heed my encouragement and appear in an audience seat, the sea was empty. The sea was empty, and I was a fool.


Werner didn't want to think about losing the house. He had known the time was coming, when the banker would be knocking at the door asking for payment. Every morning as the household woke he found himself praying to the God’s (he didn't really believe in) that today wasn't “the day”. On the day, that finally was, “the day”, when Werner heard the knock it was accompanied by the scatter of the presence of every other in the house. They all knew what a knock at the door meant. Something bad. The bank would be seizing one of them, as payment, one of Werner’s brood. That was what happened, when you couldn’t pay. It was no longer a game, this exchange.There were no excuses for non-payment of funds nowadays, no cry for “bankruptcy, no extension of credit, no mercy. When the money wasn’t there, they came to collect and collect, they did. They collected a family member. Today the time had come for Werner to pay up. He just didn't know how, or who? How could he decide who the bank would take today? There was his wife Gerda. Gerda was a plump woman but with five children that could be expected. Only Werner hadn’t expected it. Werner thought she would be a good choice because she consumed so much food. And with five other mouths to feed the household bill rose each year as the children grew and Gerda, Gerda always grew the most. When they met Gerda had a lovely form and ate like a bird. Not that Werner ever thought anything of it, at the time. But with each child born her waist had increased in size as well as her appetite. If only I could have had Gerda eat less, Werner thought. That has become a constant thought of Werner’s lately. It was almost a mantra (even though Werner had no idea what a mantra was). Over and over the thought went through his head, at breakfast, lunch and the dinner table. Oh the horror Werner felt now as she gorged on a chicken leg. One night the leg looked much like his daughters. Getting rid of Gerda would take that cost of food in half, even less, Werner thought, as he watched her shovel fork after fork down her gullet morning, noon and evening as if there was no end. Gerda made sure the family never missed a meal. God forbid, Werner thought, wishing he could bring up the suggestion. Gerda would never have it. “But the children are growing,” He could already hear her excuse. And Werner would agree that the children grew but Gerda, Gerda grew more. However, there was no way he could get rid of his wife. She took care of all the children while he was at work.... when Werner had work. It had been a long time since he had had a job, that was really why they were in this predicament. It was all consuming, Werner’s worrying of how he was going to do this. And that was what made it so hard for him to find work. Werner was too busy worrying. “I married a louse,” Gerda screamed one day, her robust, stern, face had taken on a hard, apple red color. Werner had asked which child they would, “do away with”, as Werner had put it, which seemed to have made Gerda madder than ever. “I will not give the bank to my children,” Gerda had shouted, possessively, “if anyone goes, I’ll make sure it’s you.” Werner knew Gerda didn’t mean it. How would they survive without him? Secretly though, Werner worried she may be telling the truth and when the banker came, Gerda would overwhelm them all with her bulk and the bank would take him! But, the time had finally come, the banker was at the door. As the man knocked once more Werner tried to duck behind the curtain before he was seen. Too bad Werner had never been faster, or good, at anything much. Had he, they might not have been in this predicament. Or, at least Gerda was always saying that much. As much as he wanted to give Gerda to the banker who would take care of the children if she was gone? Werner would never survive them without her. The five children were too much for Werner. Rambunctious, all over the house, always moving, always shouting, always, much, too much for Werner. But then everything in life was much too much for Werner. That was why the family was in this predicament. The banker wore a blue suit, carried a clipboard and oddly, like no other bankers Werner had ever seen, had a pencil tucked behind his left ear. As Werner opened the door the banker took the pencil from behind his left ear, licked the newly sharpened point and balanced that tip on the paper on his clipboard. “Mr. Werner Werner,” I presume the banker said. Werner nodded his head, as unlucky as he ever felt in his life and ushered the banker in before the neighbors could see. Werner wanted to run outside, he knew they had all seen the banker, hoping they hadn't. Wanted to run outside and tell them it had been Gerda’s fault, she had eaten her way to losing their children. Werner walked to the kitchen not knowing what to tell the banker. The banker followed, puzzled by the display. Usually the banker's clients were, by now, either crying or shoving him off with one family member or two. None had ever taken him inside their home. The banker wondered what Werner was up to. He felt secure though, as he touched the taser each banker had been issued, just in case someone got “hysterical” (as the bankers manual instructed to use the taser in an instance such as that). The banker however, had yet to use this instrument, his weapon. Secretly, he very much would like to try. The banker had just never been given the chance. Yet. The banker wasn't giving up on his dreams, either. As the pair entered the kitchen Werner began to babble, then bobble, and finally, blubber, something about a big beast and food. The banker couldn't understand Werner over his hysterics. His hand traveled down to the taser, the shiny, black, thing. “This could be the day,” the little banker agreed (with that little voice inside his head that told him all the things a banker needed to know). While a banker did not usually need to know about zapping people with bolts of lightning (that was how the banker thought about the activity of the taser, having never seen or used one himself) this man was quite proud that his job was so important he could do things like that. “Only if necessary,” that little voice in his head said, wagging an imaginary finger like the banker's mother had done when warning him of things. She had warned him a great many times when he was growing up. That had been why the banker had been so successful. Successful enough to carry weapons that produce results like an electric chair. The banker didn't know much about the electric chair, that form of punishment had been done away with centuries before. It had been said to be too inhumane to carry on as a form of punishment. “Better to enslave people as indentured servants for their entire life, doing manual, back breaking, hard labor. Let that kill them”, the little voice inside the banker's head said (and the banker happily agreed). Much more humane, the banker added to the thoughts in his head. There were notes in there too, in his head, the voice there made them. Five minutes had passed as the banker had this talk, back and forth, with the voice in his head. Werner had blubbered on, unnoticed by the banker. When all Werner’s blabbering, blubbering and blanching had stopped (and the banker had finished his discussion with himself) he turned to Werner and said, ”Now, Mr. Werner Werner, it seems that the bank records indicate you have not paid your house payment for quite some time. I hate to be intrusive but, as a formality, I must record why it is, that is”, (the banker always had a hard time with this part of the collection, each time, as to why, the banker had no idea).... The banker flustered and floundered until he found the words the banker had been taught to say and said,” why is it that you have not made payment?” Werner stood and said nothing for a time, looking at the banker as the banker waited, looking back at Werner. The banker cleared his throat. Werner said nothing. The banker again cleared his throat. Still, nothing from Mr. Werner Werner. As the banker cleared his throat for a third (the banker thought) and final time Warner knew that he must give the banker an answer. Sadly Werner had come to the conclusion that there was no other no way out of this than politely answering the banker’s questions, deciding on who in the family to give to the banker and saying goodbye to them forever. Still, he did not know who to give the banker. Werner knew the bank never gave anyone back. And, once they were deposited they were gone,forever. Even the bankers didn't know what happened to the [people] payments. The banker had overheard a conversation of the top bank officials once but, it had been so shocking (the information he had heard) and so official, top secret, and important, the banker had promptly made himself forget it. Because that was what a good banker did (or, at least that's what the banker thought a good banker did). Werner finally got around to telling the banker he couldn't find employment to pay the bank note on the house. Now, it was up to the banker to find the right course of action for the bank and, of course, the homeowner. Did Mr. Werner Werner want to keep his home? the banker politely inquired. “Indeed, sir, I do, I do. I have five children in this home. All born and raised here. And my wife. My very big wife with a big belly who eats very big food.” The banker felt that Mr. Werner Werner was hinting at something but couldn't put his finger on what. It was strange that the family was in another part of the house. Usually they were all gathered together at this moment. A family was a family after all. It couldn't be helped that the bank had to take one of them today. Couldn't be helped at all, the banker thought. That's what a family did, after all, the banker thought. A family helped one another. As the banker shared his thoughts with Werner hope sprang in his head, tears glistened in his eyes. It seemed to Werner that the banker was telling him that none of this was his fault. It was just the way of things and when things like this happened the family must make do, help one another. Werner was relieved with this information. Nothing could have been sweeter to Werner then hearing this situation was not his fault. The fault of this should have been laid directly at his feet by Gerda when the trouble began, Werner thought (and knowingly thought the banker would agree). Now as much as he wanted to usher Gerda out of the house, Werner in no way shape or form wanted to, or could, care for the five children it would leave him with. If he was to rid himself of Gerda first, when the bank came for payment the next time the whole ordeal wouldn't be that hard, as it was this first time, Werner thought. Mentally he was preparing himself for that day (blessed day, as he stopped that thought and shamed himself for wanting to pay all the bills with his beloved family) he would be rid of all of them. “No way I will let that happen,” Werner ushered that terrible (but wonderful) thought out of his head. To think that his blessed home might one day be quiet again. It was a cognitive dissonance that overwhelmed Werner’s every little bit of brain (what brain Werner, feebly possessed). Gerda, Werner knew, Gerda, would never let that happen. NEVER. As that thought plummeted Werner knew that his pick had been made. He needed to keep the children intact. And, Gerda was eating them out of house and home. His mind flashed back (luckily) to that night, as Gerda sat, eating the chicken leg that looked so very like his daughters. He had three and it really could have been any of their legs. Werner didn't like to look at them much these days. They were all beginning to look like Gerda. And they sounded like Gerda too, at times. Gerda has to go, Werner thought, sweating now and getting overly excited. What Werner didn't know was that, in finding the solution, he was feeling relieved. Odd, what a body registers as a feeling for relief. It was just that Werner’s brain hadn’t registered yet, every thought he knew, he knew. As the banker stood, waiting to ask the last, dreaded, question, one of the Werner daughters wandered into the room having been sent by Gerda to see what was taking so long. Gerda hadn't known that today was meant to be payday. Werner had his dreaded letter that had come the week before with the date, today's date, boldly stamped in red hidden in his underwear drawer where Gerda refused to go after the debacle over a small, brown, stain. “Who Sir will you be turning over to the bank to make payment today?” When the banker asked that last, dreaded question, silence filled the room. The banker was used to screaming children, screaming women and weeping men but Werner and his daughter stood silent, both unwavering in their expression of nothingness. The child seems very like the father the banker noted on his paper for no reason at all. In time, this comment would become wise words indeed, as the Werner children taken in payment were worth next to nothing when it came to work, very much like their father indeed. And now that the question had been posed, the words had sunk into the home and into Gerda. “You lousy, no good, filthy, sack of,” she screamed, her huge form flying into the room and raging at everyone and no one in particular. So out of control was the large woman and so frightful a creature, a beast of women, indeed, that the banker's hand shot to his only defense. His trusty taser. The one he had never used. Too afraid of its power but the banker had always been wishful to one day have the chance.... As Gerda’s huge form lost its balance, seething with hatred and rage over the man who could do nothing, nothing at all for them, she began to lose her balance and, so big had been her appetite that her body overflowed and came close to the banker, as if she sought to overwhelm him with her bulk. The banker, unsure of what this huge form could do to his little frame, shakily took out his trusty taser and shot the bolt out into the big woman. The manual had said this taser was supposed to stop even the biggest and baddest of animals (as the banker remembered studying it). And, as the jolt of electricity found the big woman, the banker was a little disappointed. He had expected more, just not sure of what that more would be. All he knew now was that he was amazed with the power of the woman and a little ashamed at the lack of power in his taser. All Werner could do during this entire incident was wait for it to be over and hope Gerda was taken by the banker. And, as sure as the power of the taser was spent the woman, as it sputtered, faded and stopped, she flopped like a dead whale, flapping the bulk of herself on the kitchen floor where she oozed over the linoleum and lay still, finally, unmoving. Werner was amazed. Had he known that little black magic doohickey would do that to his wife. He hadn't known the banker even carried it. Knowing this, Werner would have told the banker to take Gerda in the first place. Werner’s biggest fear now lay on the floor, unmoving, not talking, not eating and finally Werner was at peace. He had made his decision and though the banker had never taken an unconscious payment before, he felt quite sure that this beast of a woman, who could drain his mighty lightning, would be the best payment the bank had ever received. Her mighty form would do great work Well, that was, the banker thought, as long as they didn't have to feed her much. The next day with Gerda gone Werner had been made to get up by the children and their need for things. So much was needed of him, for them. And Werner was so overwhelmed he didn't even have time to think of how overwhelmed he was. He just did. And then Werner had to do more. Finally, the family needed so much that Werner found a job. Part-time, that is. But, with Werner’s part-time work, the money saved on food (Gerda ate no more with them, you see), the children’s help and the extra money Gerda made for the bank with her bulk form working (Werner got a stipend from the bank,which, was a first) off Werner’s payments. Werner never had to see the banker again to make another payment. Best of all, Werner didn't worry so much anymore (especially about chicken legs and children).


“Good morning, sir!” “Hello. Bottom floor please?” “*Bottom*-bottom?” “I was told to go to the bottom.” “The bottom! Hah! A brave one or a desperate one?” “I... was told the doctor there could fix my leg?” “Desperate. Always the desperate ones.” “Excuse me?” “*Some* smell permeating this elevator. What’s that? Colgate? Crest?” “What did you mean by that ‘Always the desperate ones,’ comment?” “Oh, yeah, definitely Colgate. Hmmm, can’t say I’ve had teeth in some time. Forgot how they tasted.” “Tasted?” “Don’t see many of your kind down here these days. Most take one look at the operator and turn right around!” “So that’s what you are?” “In the flesh! Practically swimming in it! Hah! Get it? It’s an elevator operator joke, a bit of elevator humor to lighten the mood!” “I don’t believe I understand what flesh has to do with an elevator?” “You don’t?” “Haven’t the faintest clue.” “Huh. Interesting.” “What does flesh have to do with an elevator?” “Yes, sir, *some* smell permeating this elevator. Tell me, sir, do your kind still watch that show with the--what was it you call them, again?--the sheriffs just going about their day-to-day lives in that small town in North Carolina?” “You mean *The Andy Griffith Show?*" “That’s the one! Absolute classic! Never saw it myself, can’t say I’m too familiar with the premise.” “Uh? Yes, it’s a very old show, still in black and white.” “My, my! You guys have both colors on your TV’s?” “All of them, I guess.” “Guess I gotta find a way to step out of this elevator sometime. Hah.” “At least I got that joke!” “What joke?” “I’m sorry, maybe I’m going crazy. Nerves, you know. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a hospital quite like this one. Didn’t know they even existed until today.” “Nothing scary about a hospital. There are real scary things out there, you know the ones. Illuminati flesh pits, doomsday time vortexes, flaming death wraiths, boulders.” “Do people really believe in those things?” “Never seen any empirical proof of a boulder myself.” “What about the other things?” “Mhmm, some smell I’m smelling. Minty, fresh. Smells awfully nice.” “I’m sorry, how much longer will this elevator ride be?” “Let’s see... Bottom, right? We’re at floor B74 right now. That’s one of my favorites, Rusty’s floor.” “Rusty?” “Head surgeon, nicest guy. It’s always a joy to hear the grinding gears of his legs approaching the break room, so I’ve heard.” “He sounds... friendly.” “Very nice guy, the nurse won’t shut her damn mouths about him.” “I take it the nurses like him?” “The *nurse.* Every day she just comes in my elevator talking about how ‘nice’ he is and asking if I’ve seen him skittering around any of the ceilings. I’m an elevator operator, not a janitor! I don’t see the ceilings here! Then one of her faces will go off on me about how I’m ‘not showing respect to the hospital staff’ and how I can ‘be reported to the head of the hospital if I don’t stop talking to her like that!’” “I take it you don’t like her?” “I hate anyone who tracks blood in my elevator.” “How about my doctor? Dr.-” “Dr. Penicello! Yeah, I know Penny. He’s an Italian fellow, one of the best doctors on the bottom floor.” “So you’d say I got pretty lucky?” “Maybe. Just try to look as healthy as you can around him. Don’t limp around on that leg of yours too much, the doctors here smell wounds.” “Smell?” “Just go straight down the hall to his office. Don’t hang a left, and certainly don’t hang a right.” “What’s on the right?” “Those are the words of a man thinking of taking a right. Stop thinking about the right. The faster you forget, the faster it goes away.” “What do you mean by ‘it goes away?'” “God dammit! Stop talking about it! I’m trying to forget and you’re not helping!” “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about what I was saying.” “Just change the damn topic!” “Uh, some smell?" “Smell? What smell? What are you talking about?” “The smell you mentioned earlier.” “Don’t smell nothing! Not a damn smell in this whole elevator. Don’t even know why you’re in a hospital.” “I’m here because of my leg, the doctor at the bottom floor was going to fix it! We talked about this!” “The bottom floor? That really is serious.” “I know it is! And I’m starting to think that not even this hospital can fix the damn thing!” “No, no, Penny is the only one who can fix an ailment like that. I’d know, I work here.” “Then why is everyone in this building acting so strange? Why are you all dodging questions?” “Yep, I’m smelling it for sure. Colgate, that’s what it is.” “Are you sure there are no human doctors that can operate on me?” “Nope. Humans wouldn’t sign you up for an appointment with a sickly glob of mold if they didn’t have to.” “A glob of what now?” “Oh! Looks like the elevator is finally coming to a stop.” “Yeah, this is my floor, I’d best be going.” “If you wait a moment, I might be able to introduce you to Rusty. I think I hear him coming down from the not-left side of the hall.” “I think I’ll pass, I’m... sort of in a hurry to get home.” “Good luck in there. Hey! Tell that sticky gray bastard to share for once in his goddamn life!” “Share what?” “Just tell him the giant maggot in his elevator hasn’t eaten in days. Can’t go without my fix tonight. He’ll know.” “I’ll, uh, be sure that he feeds you. I guess I’ll see you again after my appointment?” “A brave one. Huh.


She was a study in restrained elegance. Hers was an uneasy smile, the kind that surfaces only when it has to. A twitch of indiscernible tumult betrayed the placid calm of her demeanour. She was, for lack of a better phrase, quietly stunning. Black, wavy hair, ruffled only slightly by the gusts of activity and the general hubbub of her manic surroundings. A gentleness of movement, married to the unmistakable, if barely perceptible, shifts of uncertainty and doubt. There was economy in her motion, though excess in its inertia - a sense that each neuron fired was one she would rather have not wasted. As though every gesture had meaning, though what that meaning was, was an exercise in futility. *Just who are you?* The diner was loud, almost uncomfortably so. Patrons yelled, babies screamed. It was no different from any other diner at any other time in any other point in history. People came and left. Customers alighted and then returned. Workers buzzed about, busy bees in this colony of cheap eats and cheaper smiles. The diner itself was constant in its inconsistency. A continuous ebb and flow of human beings, each with their own story to tell, their own dreams to share. Their own nightmares to endure. *What was your nightmare? What lit up your dreams?* And then there was her. Almost unmoving, a stoic oasis at the centre of a storm. The food, a term loosely used for what was present before her, was consumed absent-mindedly, as her eyes drifted from it to the phone lying on the table in front of her. The delights of deep-fried poultry were lost upon this most inconceivably spell-binding of creatures, her attention focused upon what was, clearly, a war happening in her own mind. Her gaze darted, fitfully, from chicken breast to her mind’s eye, from leftover coleslaw to the detritus of her heart. Each passing moment lent her air a slowly-building, and depressingly alarming, hue of desperation. *Let me fight this with you.* She shifted uneasily in her seat, more a product of the apparent disaster that was unfolding within her than the chair’s poor design. Her lips trembled slightly as she exhaled in frustration. Or was it despair? Her face changed. Just for a second. A flash of...anger? Bemusement? Grief? It was hard to tell. The noise didn’t make it any easier to figure out what was really going on. But the signs were not good. The trembling was even more obvious now. Her colour had started to rise. For a brief moment, the world stood still as the noise died away. There was nothing in it but her. *Oh no.* Something had snapped. A tear rolled down her cheek, freed from the bonds of captivity, aided in their escape by gravity. Tellingly, her sculpted expression remained as unforgiving as granite. She cast a steely glare down at the screen of her phone, a potent cocktail of rage and melancholy. All at once, I knew who she was. Tired, broken by the world and those that had loved her. Strong, but not that strong. Weakened but not weak. A fighter who wanted to put down her sword. An artist that couldn’t help but paint one more masterpiece, even if it killed her. This, was her magnum opus - the subtle lie that she told the whole world. The lie that nothing would ever break her. *Don’t give up.* It all happened so quickly. The wiping of the tear’s trail, the cleared throat, the lightning fast regaining of her shaken composure. All was well, was it not? No one had seen anything. And so it hadn’t happened. Except it had. She decided to not bother with the rest of her food. The leftovers were packed into a plastic bag, and she quickly disposed of them. She got up and left, exiting my life as quickly as she had arrived. I knew that I had come to love her. I could only hope that someone out there would some day, love her as much as I do.


Why do I write? What do I write? I was asked these questions recently. The answers are simple. There are times in life when the world purely sucks. We can either wallow in self-pity or do what we must to push through the bad times. The more this story is told, the better off this world will be. Don't believe me, read on. "Nurse Tatum, I know I need to go to rehab. As soon as I get home, I will make the necessary arrangements. She glanced at my charts, shaking her head, before handing the paperwork to the hospital therapist. "You should stay here a few weeks; we could get you on the right track. Some people don't follow through, and accidents like yours change their lives forever." There was one final chiding stare into my stitched-up face before she spun around in perfect military fashion and exited the room. Days before meeting horse doctors dressed up as medical professionals, I was happy. My plans were set. I had goals, and I followed my dreams to meet those goals. I had a purpose and career and was making the most money I had ever earned working with actual medical professionals. I had personal phone numbers of Gods; well, they thought they were gods, but...they were that good. Why not allow them their delusions while they did the impossible to save lives? My work week was always more prolonged than usual. Then, there was Houston traffic to contend with. Never pray for patience, or God will put you in Houston. Once you drive fifteen or twenty miles in first gear, you learn patience or leave Houston. Vacations are meant to be a safety release valve from those ninety-minute commutes to go fifteen miles. The sky was clear and blue, with no cloud in sight. Stuck behind a driver who constantly fluctuated between exceeding the speed limit and then crawling below it, I grew concerned about his sobriety. I decided to pass him. We had two lanes in our direction, and dividing us from oncoming traffic was an esplanade. Once beside the truck, I noticed the man was eating, using both hands. Turning my attention to the road ahead as I topped the hill, a black Cadillac was headed straight toward me. Instead of being on his side of the freeway, he was on the wrong side, my side. We closed the gap at a combined speed of 110mph. I slammed on the brakes, cursed, and all hell broke loose. Time slowed as crystalline bits of the windows shattered around me. With the force of a shotgun blast, the bits of glass dug into my skin and even penetrated my body through my clothes. The steering wheel hit me full force, crushing my chest my face, and shattering my nose. When time resumed, I couldn't breathe, much less discern the status of the rest of my body. This event, my friends, is one of those times when the world seems filled with disappointment and despair. The simple act of inhaling becomes a daunting task as anxiety seizes your entire being. Through the broken window and steam plumes leaving my truck, I watched as they pulled the old man from his Cadillac. Beer cans scattered around his car as they placed him on a yellow board. Two goofy volunteers approached my truck, using an elaborate can opener to peel the door back. I could scarcely breathe through the pain as they forcefully pulled me out of the wreckage of my brand-new car. They took me to this rundown hospital that smelled musty and neglected. The ER had brown stains on the ceiling, which showed they hadn't been keeping up with disease control. As soon as I entered the ER, I could hear the faint sounds of doctors and Andy coming from behind the thin curtain. Andy was the fool in the Cadillac. The attending ER doctor was wearing a jacket emblazoned with the logo of his alma mater. The smell of beer on his breath filled the air while they cut my clothes off. Modesty in a hospital is not a trait worth having. Since the old man was behind a curtain, I was in front of two open doors leading to a hallway. People were performing a triage visible to anyone who wandered down the hall. The doctor's young PA made it seem like I was the star of the show. I couldn't do anything to fix the situation while struggling to breathe. The investigating officer was a fat, good-ole-boy who knew Andy well. They went to the same place of worship. I overheard them chatting while the cop said a prayer for him. I thought he was a super Christian who would pray for me, right? No way. He had his ticket book in hand instead of a bible. He watched as they removed my clothes. The first responders said I didn't have my seat belt on. I voiced my opposition to their observation . I took it off, thinking it was why I couldn't breathe. Nope, it wasn't. The cop's face went all sour when they ripped off the rest of my shirt and saw the big angry bruise stretching from my shoulder to my hip. The seat belt definitely messed up a lot of ribs. The cop wasn't done yet. You're guilty until proven innocent... That's how it goes when the cop and the drunk are buddies. He told the doctors to test me for every drug they could think of. The PA kept bugging me about what I took at least fifty times. They didn't give me pain meds because they didn't know what I was taking. I told them, "I wasn't on anything," that was the truth. The PA, who was really good-looking, wouldn't stop trying to bribe me with pain meds just to find out what drugs I was using for fun. I couldn't help but wonder who that old person was that they were going all out to protect. When I thought about how cute she was, I was reassured that maybe I wasn’t as bad off as I looked. What do you think? Can you envision the excruciating pain of having multiple broken ribs, a shattered nose, teeth protruding through your face, knees in disarray, and neck and back injuries that intensify with every breath, all while enduring a novel form of torture with no relief for the agony? If I sound bitter, it's because I totally am. As the glass pierced my body, it tore through my clothes, leaving behind a trail of holes. I don't know who they were, but these young people in white scrubs were trying to remove the glass from my body without any pain relief. Andy's wife showed up, standing right in front of me and giving me a stare. She gawked at my naked body and then locked eyes with me. She didn't have to say anything. She wanted to blame me, and her body language said it all. To her, I was like bubble gum from the parking lot, stuck to her new shoes. Strutting around in her fancy clothes and jewelry that would get her robbed in New York, it was obvious she thought she was better than me, a blood-spattered mess of a young person. She changed her tune pretty quickly. Sliding behind the curtain, she asked him, "What happened?" “They said I was driving on the wrong side of the road again. I don't know why, but that place on the highway always messes with my head.” "You're drunk!" She exclaimed. "Na, I only had a six-pack." “Andy, why were you driving in the first place? You said you wouldn't drink and drive if I got you another car, right?” "It was halftime, and we had no beer left." I was just going to the store to get more." "We didn't run out of beer." You were out. You need to see what you did to that young man.” “I won’t do it again; I have learned my lesson.” I heard his wife screaming loudly in the room, scolding him angrily and disappointedly for his stupid choice to drink and drive. After a few minutes, she returned to my side of the curtain. She reached out and touched my blood-spattered forehead, stroking my curly, long hair out of my face. "I am sorry, young man. After he crashed his truck, he swore he wouldn't drink and drive. I got him that Cadillac because it's bigger, so if he gets into another wreck, he might not get hurt as bad..." she said before her voice trailed off. She didn't seem to care about the consequences of enabling a drunk. I stole a peek at her face as she looked over the damage to my nakedness again. It made me feel even more awkward when she watched them work on my exposed body. It felt as though invisible chains held me in place, rendering me unable to move. The students, or whatever they were, were painstakingly extracting shards of glass. I wanted to divert her attention. "How did he wreck his truck?" I asked as blood spurted from the holes under my lips. She glanced at my face, her eyes darting away from my lower extremities. "He ran into a tree in our front yard. It was raining..." She knew the rain was another excuse. These following few sentences unfolded inexplicably, leaving me bewildered. "How is he?" I asked. As she peered into my eyes, I felt a sense of vulnerability. "His hip is bothering him, and he has a cut on his forehead." "I hope his health improves quickly. I guess the larger car worked." She clenched her jaw and nodded. Her attention shifted to the workers who were down to my midsection. She watched as they searched the blood spatter to make sure it was just spatter and not an active puncture. We were silent as one of the women working on me glanced up to see us both watching. She pulled the wool blanket up to my waist and returned to work. "I am not supposed to tell you this, but our insurance coverage is excellent." I attempted to nod, but the pain in my neck sent a sharp reminder down my spine that any movement was ill-advised. At the moment, insurance was the least of my concerns. I couldn't understand why I wasn't consumed by a raging fury; instead, a sense of tranquility washed over me. As a painful reminder of that day, I had an ugly purple stripe etched on my skin with multiple broken ribs and a cracked sternum. The reporter in the ER had tangible proof in the form of photographs. Andy went home while I remained confined to the beeping machines and antiseptic smell of the ICU for a whole week. From there, I entered a nauseatingly green-plastered room that seemed straight out of the atomic age. While I was in the ICU, I had a team of medical professionals, including dentists, a plastic surgeon, and a cardiologist, who tended to my bruised heart. Following the re-shaping of my nose, they stuffed a bundle of cotton up my nostrils to stem the flow of blood cascading down my throat. All of this happened with no meds for pain. I guess they sent my blood work to a lab in another state, which explains the delay in getting the results. On my last day there, the attending doctor asked me, "Why is your sodium low?" I glared at him. "Is that the best you got? After badgering me for days regarding what drugs I was on and not giving me anything for pain and its low sodium?" He clenched his jaw, realizing that he had put me through hell because his friend, the drunk, was looking like he was the only person at fault. He was. "Not a doctor, but I had the flu a few weeks ago. Would that cause low sodium from dehydration?" He nodded before telling me they were releasing me. Remember that even the guy who graduates at the bottom of his class in med school still earns the title of doctor. A burly orderly brought a wheelchair into my room. I winced as I heard it violently collide with both doors. I believe he thought it was cute. After suffering a head-on collision where every movement felt like daggers twisting in my chest, I suppose his humor was to make me believe the worst was over. He handed me a local paper; I was on the front page. Not Andy, nor his beer cans. It was me being extracted from my truck. "I thought you might want this as a souvenir," he said. I glanced at the paper and nodded, "Thanks." "Most people in head-on collisions like yours end up in the morgue. How is it you survived? Do you think God was at work?" I glanced at him, seeing him wearing a silver ring with a cross on it. "Possibly," I uttered. *** After years of study and work, my career was on the line. Rehab was not an option; it was a necessity. Disability insurance alone cannot cover all the expenses. Andy and I both relied on the same insurance company for coverage. Unfortunately, that little fact didn't turn out in my favor. They fought me tooth and nail on every minute detail. Even though my vehicle was brand new, I didn't receive complete reimbursement. They paid the medical bills but disputed the value of my personal belongings, claiming they were not new or that I couldn't provide proof of their newness. Who keeps receipts past a few weeks? They're usually crumpled up and tossed in the trash. The months slowly passed as I went from one doctor's office to another, desperately seeking a way to regain my mobility. Even though the ribs had healed, the haunting memories remained. There were numerous challenges, each one more complicated than the last. Any injury comes with the genuine presence of pain. Although not immediately noticeable, scar tissue can unexpectedly cause discomfort. It didn't take long after returning to the workforce to discover that the range of motion was only one small part of a larger scenario. The more I did during the day caused me immeasurable discomfort during the nighttime. All the things we take for granted come into play. Sleep is one of them. After many missed days because of the pain and inability to sleep, I had to reinvent myself. All those classes and hours spent to be an engineer flitted away like the empty beer cans around that old drunk's car. Put yourself in this situation--what would you do? I could throw my hands up in frustration and consider filing for disability. Would that amount of money be enough to cover the monthly expenses? Would I be happy? As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, it became painfully clear that my medical needs would require greater attention. One of my doctors glanced at the X-rays and said, "I would hate to be in your body." I thought that if Stephen Hawking could do what he did, I could bloody well do more than I was . PTSD is as crippling as the rest of the physical ailments. To this day, I resist going anywhere because, in the back of my mind, there is always the next drunk or foolish person texting and driving. PTSD can rob you of your freedom if you allow it. I face the fear and force myself to do it. The moment that image of that Cadillac comes to mind, I get my keys. You must! More classes at night brought about a new career in IT. Before too many years passed, I managed many engineers at Fortune 500 companies. As I fought the excruciating pain of my vertebrae fusing together, I realized the relentless passage of time and the undeniable truth. I would need to reinvent myself once again. Quoting my cousin, 'Never Never Ever Give Up.' I painted a portrait of him, and started over. My unwavering dedication to writing has been like a compass guiding me through the past few years. Writing is my north star. As an author, writer, and purveyor of wisdom, I am devoted to the craft that brings stories to life. I write because even my worst nightmares pale in comparison to this brutally accurate depiction of my day in hell. Andy faced no legal consequences; his friends protected him at my expense. Following losing his wife, he sought refuge in the driver's seat of an 18-wheeler. It's true . I guess he finally found a vehicle big enough to give him a fighting chance in the next driving mishap. God helped his victim. What do I write? The possibilities are endless for what I can do. The pain is no match for my determination to climb the highest mountains and sail a yacht to Australia. Despite my PTSD, when I climb in behind the yoke of a fighter jet or scuba dive into a cave or the wreck of a ship, I feel a sense of liberation. Physics doesn't hinder me as I navigate the galaxy, searching for signs of intelligent life. In my world, I can transform into any person or creature I desire. I can be playful and cheeky, or I can be gentle and compassionate. In short, writing allows me to break free from the constraints of societal norms, defying gravity and the laws of time and space. Why do I write? Because I can.


The suburbs constantly sing with the tinny buzz of lawnmowers. In the summer, suburbia sweats the smell of freshly cut grass- manicured lawns. The fall is for breathing out leaves needing to be raked. It was chilly for September, thought Miriam. She wiped the moisture from her brow and threw the rake down in disgust. She was angry at the leaves for still being soaked from the rain two nights ago. As the wind stirred again, she kicked the leaves and decided that her neighbor James could take over tomorrow. He already mowed her lawn in the summers. She would have to find a new way to pay him back. Inside, Miriam realized that she had missed a call from Benjamin. She called him back before taking off her shoes. Ben wanted to know if she needed a ride to Church tomorrow. Always so gracious, she thought, and decided to accept. And spent the rest of the night massaging her sore muscles. The next morning, Ben is fifteen minutes late, but Miriam still jumps when she hears the horn honk. She rushes through her makeup, slapping on foundation, concealer, blush, lipstick, and eyeshadow. She thinks twice about wearing the clingy red dress. After all, she does not want Pastor C. to call her a Jezebel- again. The dress wins the argument. Five minutes after mounting into the car and warmly greeting Ben, Miriam shouts in panic, "Oh, no- I forgot my earrings." "This is not a disaster, Miriam," responds Ben, with a smile. "Do you want to go back and get them?" he asks. "That's what I love about you," said Miriam, realizing too late the words that she had let escape her mouth. She had confessed a secret, long buried in her heart, that she had guarded like a security guard does a bank vault. But- it was the nonchalance at which the words had been uttered that upset her most. There was an awkward silence, above which only the swish-swish of the windshield wipers could be heard. Then, Ben, in that slow way of drawing out the words like he was accustomed to- listening to him was like watching honey or molasses run- said, "I like you too, Miriam." She chuckled, half in disgust at herself. But, in her head, dangerous thoughts began to cyclone like a whirlpool. Miriam dared not fantasize. Usually, their conversation would flow easily- like a gentle river rushing along. But, today, Miriam is too inside of her head to listen to Ben as he makes small talk. She tries to pay attention. She realizes that Ben is in the middle of telling her about how his wife isn't feeling well. "Yes," he says, "We think that maybe at dinner last night she ate oysters that had gone bad." "Oh," replies Miriam, not even looking at him. "I'll have to call her." There was another long pause. By this point, they were halfway to Church. Miriam saw the familiar bar, Lucky Strike, where she had met Ben's wife, dancing on a table, almost a decade ago. Suddenly, Ben turns the car off the route into a parking lot. "Something wrong, Ben?" Miriam asks, nervously. "I'm curious..." Ben begins to say but does not finish. Instead, he doesn't lean in, but pounces on her- lunging a kiss at her that bruises her lips. For Miriam, there is no reaction, just the taking over of instinct. Something swells up inside of her. A wave of relief, of pleasure, mixed with happy surprise. She responds, enthusiastically, almost clashing with his teeth. The wave bursts. Slowly, a moan escapes from her lips that causes Ben to pull back. The moan is deep, raw, and guttural- full of need- like an animal. He remembers his wife at home throwing up chunks of gelatinous shellfish in the bathroom. Her moans and groans of pain- full of discomfort- were just as raw, as deep, as needful the night before. "We can't do this, Miriam," Ben finally drawls out. "I'm sorry." "I'm sorry too," Miriam replies, pulling down the passenger headboard to check her lipstick in the mirror. She wasn't sorry. The kiss had released a longing inside of her. She didn't care about Lucy, his wife and her best friend, sick in bed. Miriam thought about reapplying her makeup and decided against it. No need to tempt Pastor C.'s judgment. "Yes, you're right," Miriam slithered out, looking Ben deeply in his brownish-blue eyes, one of her favorite things about him. "It wouldn't be fair to Lucy." "Or Ivan." "Yes, Ivan, too," she repeated, with a sigh. "How is Ivan?" said Ben, as if he were easing into a cold swimming pool. "Is he back in the country?" he asked. "No, he's still abroad," replied Miriam- continuing this conversation with the same enthusiasm as she would undergo a root canal. "He's coming for Christmas...but we should get to Church. It's late." As they start to drive off, Miriam's mind begins to clear like the clouds after a storm. She remembers Ivan. Ivan who is milky-white to Ben's sun-kissed tones. Ivan who is shorter than Ben. Ivan, who is not here. Ben fidgets with the radio dial, turning on Christian Lite FM. A familiar hymn about taking it one day at a time and waiting upon the Lord is in the middle of playing. Miriam decides that she will not tell her husband about the kiss. Smiling to herself, she thinks, "it'll be our little secret." The rain begins falling in heavy curtains, and Ben, increasing the wipers, clears his throat and says, "Looks like it's going to thunderstorm- again." "Yes," replied Miriam, back again, sitting Shiva, with her thoughts. She felt like she had lost something with that kiss. An idea of who she was- her sanity, her self-respect, her moral center. But she had gained a new understanding about passion, and desire, and what it meant to be loved. And that made her even more afraid. Miriam stared straight ahead, into and through the rain, and thought, the leaves will have to wait.