A pad of paper on the dashboard. Three tally-lines through the middle. Stopwatch counting down from twenty-seven minutes. The man gets out of his car and shuts the door behind him. He mutters a quick goodbye to the passenger and walks head down towards the white light of the gas station. The bell chimes. Lemon freshener and the smell of sweet breads. Clerk in the back aisle lost in his music. A remix of Counting Stars . Something to get the limbs moving and brain-wires firing. Something to get through the graveyard shift. Another clerk stands behind the counter stiff and tall. His name is on display: Hi, I’m Alan . Alan looks like he’s just smoked a pack and he’s trying to hide it. His gaze juvenile and directed out of the storefront window to the man’s wagon. It’s a fresh-set of wheels: a Ford Thunderbird with a white band through the black middle-exterior, a ride-or-die sticker plastered on the hood, and a two-spoke steering wheel with iron horns poking out the ends. Alan’s gawking at the ride. That, or the goth chick in the passenger seat. She’s re-applying her gun-bore black lipstick in the rear-view mirror, tugging on the sleepy strap of her red bra. She crosses her legs. Artisan: the man’s teeth. Product: torn fishnets. She’s looking. The man winks at his passenger. Back to Alan. He manually closes his gaped mouth and musses back his curly thick hair. “Sweet ride, boss,” he says. “Sure is.” The man smiles. His hand runs to the back of his jeans where his pocket watch lies. A silver-plated antique crested with a leering skull. It’s minutes count by twenty-three and the man knows the number without even looking. He knows by instinct, how a junkie knows what hit will get them snoring or screaming. “Let me get a pack of these.” He picks up two boxes of PleasureMax from the counter and slides them to Alan. “And a packet of Marlboros. Give me the mint ones. I’m feeling alive tonight.” “Yes, boss.” The man looks to the other worker who still hasn’t looked up. He’s mouthing words down the stick-end of the mop, probably onstage in the Royal Albert with his crush in the front row. “Here you are,” says Alan. He slides the cigarettes to the man and inputs the price into the machine. “That’ll be thirty-six fifty, boss.” The man pulls out a Bad Mofo wallet - the same one Jules Winnfield stakes his life on in Pulp Fiction - and hands over a fifty. Alan takes the bill, opens up the register and begins picking change. The man is surveying the space how a robber might square up a storefront before the big hit. Three aisles in the middle of the room, each to their own with cheap confectionary and cheaper food. The backwall is where Ryan Tedder mouths his heart out, right in front of the chillers and their cooled drinks and frozen lollies. “Here you are,” says Alan, reaching over with the change. The man loads the money into his wallet but falters. He smiles, slowly shaking his head. “Be a good kid,” he says. “Toss in a stick of gum, would you.” “Sure, boss.” He begins tapping in the numbers on his screen. “No no. On the house,” the man says with a wink. Alan catches his hand before confirming the sale. It’s the third time he’s been asked to give something away for free. The first was a drunk with a rat-tail moustache. He’d been sniffing around for another drink. Alan said no. He’s a good worker. He follows the ten commandments of working in a gas station. Number one: thou shalt not give freebies to those intoxicated. No matter how intoxicated. The second time was a woman with a face you’d find in Vogue and a body for the catwalk. She was itching for an unfair cashback. Alan said no. Commandment two clearly states: thou shalt not give freebies to those extremely good looking. No matter how good looking. But this man just asked for a stick of gum. It’s no alcohol or an unethical amount of money. Just a stick of gum. And no commandment mentioned anything about people like this. People with sick rides. Or maybe it was just how the man looked at Alan. There was something about his eyes. They were wild, searching. But they’ve settled now. They’re staring. Alan catches his breath. He hands the stick of gum over the counter. The man smiles and points up to the sky. “Thanks. I feel something lucky coming your way, kid. You’ve got someone looking out for you.” He snatches the gum and his hand searches for the pocket watch. Twenty-one minutes and counting. He walks away and leaves the store with a dismissive goodbye wave. The bell rings and Alan watches the man lope back to his car. He finally breathes out. The man gets into his car and pops a stick of Ice into his mouth. “Are we leaving yet?” asks the girl. “Not yet. We’ve still got twenty minutes to kill.” He looks at her smiling. She smiles back. A 1988 Grand Jeep Wagoneer shoots down the US-89 North. Behind the wheel is the man with a bottle, slugging back shots with one arm out of the window. Next to him is another fella with a notebook. Its spine is splayed and the left page is tomorrows shopping list: ground beef, tinned corn, anti-bacterial wipes... the usual. On the right page are quotes from late stoics. The drinker wipes his mouth and cranks up the radio. Tears blur his vision. He falls into Fleetwood Mac’s comforting words about how there will be no more crying and how the sun will always be shining. But right now, there is no sun, only the iron moon as it watches from six hours high. He offers his drink to Hollis who refuses with a passive hand gesture. “Lookee here, Doug,” says Hollis, pointing at his notebook. “ Choose not to be harmed -- and you won’t feel harmed. Don’t feel harmed -- and you haven’t been. Marcus Aurelius said it first - king of stoicism.” He taps his head. “It’s all up here. It’s what your mind makes of it. If you choose not to feel heartbroken, it takes the weight off you.” Doug sails back a mouthful and wipes his face with the heel of his hand. “But I was heartbroken. I didn’t choose to feel this way. You think I chose to be binned off outside of an Arby’s? Hell, Hollis, there were families watching. Kids were there. I lost my composure in front of everyone . And the songbirds are singing... I love you, I love you...” Hollis watches the speedometer needle climb into the one-thirties. “Oh, Doug, I wish you’d give me that bottle.” Hollis values his friends more than he does his own life. Even when said friend smells like the ass-end of a wine house and happens to be manning a four-wheeled motorised vehicle of death. But Hollis didn’t know what he had gotten himself into when he stepped inside of the car. Doug swung around his apartment a little past twelve in the AM and blared down on the horn until the whole complex was awake. Hollis, sensing the fraying lifeline of his friend, brought with him his book of knowledge and got into the car without spotting the half-emptied bottle of bug’s juice. The next moment they were hopping states in search of new love and new life. At least Doug was. Hollis was to be up at six the next morning for the paper mill. But the time just hit 2:52 a.m. and getting up in three hours was looking less and less likely. “What the hell does this Marcus Orealis know about love anyway,” says Doug, looking Hollis straight in the face. “Eyes on the road!” The car shakes and swerves back on track. “I mean, he never met Amy. He never saw how beautiful she was. He never saw her in that pink little cardigan... that pretty pink little cardigan she wears and her two little rabbity teeth. Those cute little teeth...” he wipes his tears. Hollis sinks back into his seat, clutching the cord of his seatbelt. “Think about it, Doug. If you don’t slow down, you won’t see any pink cardigan again for the rest of your life. You’ll be dead , Doug. And I will be, too. Please tell me you can hear me.” “I’m dead inside , Hollis. I’m rotting. I’ve been eaten goddamn alive. Just let me be and let me drive.” He turns up the radio and floods the car with wavering vocals and gentle guitar. Hollis searches through the long line of quotes. “ Those things that hurt, instruct. Benjy Franklin. It’s a lesson, Doug. All a lesson.” He shouts over the radio, unknowing whether these words are being received. “She was just a... a bad teacher, is all. Or maybe the best one you ever had.” “I’m not ready to learn again. I’m too old for learning. I should know every damn thing by now.” He squeezes the wheel and wishes he could pull it from its hinges, wishes that he could fly into the sky and that the unending weight he feels inside his body would lift. What he doesn’t know is that a gas station lies two minutes ahead of them. And that stood in the middle of the road beneath the luminescent glow of the, Buy One Get One Free Slim Jim sign, is a figure coated in black with a sun-chalk light falling over his face. The man pulls his lips away from the girl. She still holds his face in her hands. “Is it time already?” she asks. He pulls the stopwatch out from his pocket and looks into the glass. “Just under two minutes,” he says. Both of them look to the piece of paper on the dashboard. Three straight lines waiting to be crossed out. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll wait here.” “I won’t be long. You can come in if you want.” “You know I don’t like what you do.” “That’s ok, honey. You just wait here.” He steps outside and shrugs his arms, balling his hands and pressing them into his spine until his back cracks. A pair of headlights gleam in the distant. They’re boiling through the black faster than expected. He turns back to the girl. She’s watching him. He winks at her before walking out onto the road. “Pull over there,” says Hollis, pointing to the gas station in the near distance. “I need to take a leak. Please, Doug, I’m gonna piss myself.” “And I need a woman who won’t leave me.” His tone has shifted from despair to hopelessness. “I need... something. A sign, you know. Maybe someone to tell me, hey Doug, it’s gonna be alright. ” “ Hey, Doug . It’s gonna be real fine and dandy until I piss all over your leather.” A glancing figure moves through the darkness. Hollis catches it, tracing the shape with his finger. “You see that, Doug? Something went into the road.” Doug hasn’t seen anything for the past three kilometres. The straight road is providence to his blindness. Blind with tears and all the other hard-hewn feelings. His eyes glisten like two coins at the bottom of a well. “Uh, Doug, slow it down now. I ain’t kiddin’ around. I think someone’s in the road. Slow it - SLOW IT DOWN!” The headlights rear over the body of a man. He’s stood centred in the road with his arms stretched in front of him. The bug’s juice is gnawing at Doug’s brain and has taken his limbic nervous system for a hike. It won’t be returning for several working days. In the split-second Hollis has, he drops his book of knowledge and throw s himself into the driver’s seat, knocking Doug to the door and sending the wheel into a left spin. And before the eternal darkness, Hollis sees the man’s face. The headlight brings shadows under his eyes, brings shadows to his grin. Not just a grin, but a leer. Staring, finding. The car spins and sails headlong into the storefront window. The man ducks under a sloping lintel and brushes debris from the collar of his jacket. Dust-stacks choke the air and motes of grit soon part before the walking figure. The three shelves fold into one broken mass where the face of the car has been compressed. One body slopes out from the broken windshield. Miraculously, somehow rested on the remains of their lap, is a whole notebook. The man steps over this body and picks up the book. He looks through it, smirks, and stuff it into his back pocket. He pokes the body with his foot. They died on impact. The man pulls the tallied paper from his jacket and strikes out two lines. He walks further through the shop and finds the singing clerk flattened, leaking red into the spiderwebbed glass of the shattered chillers. The man strikes out the final line. “You,” says a voice. The man turns and sees Alan cramped behind the counter among fallen cartons of cigarettes and spilled alcohol. His face is splashed with dust, hair matted to his face. Eyes shimmering, unwavering. The boy is in shock. The man smiles. “So you’re the lucky one. Seems you do have someone looking down on you, after all.” Someone coughs behind him. Both turn to the drunk. He’s wrestling his seatbelt, his face a cut and bloodied mess. The man looks at his paper. “It seems I made a mistake. There’s two survivors, not just one. But it’s been fated that there can only be one now.” He looks to Alan who clings nervously to the countertop, slowly swaying, twitching. Then to the drunk who still wrangles his seatbelt and spies the dead mess of his friend. Here comes the whimpering, the regret. “Alan,” says the man. He pulls out a silver coin from his jacket. One side has the tail of a serpent, the other is the skull of a goat. “I want you to call it. This is for your life.” Alan doesn’t move. He doesn’t register the words. “ Alan .” “Huh?” “Heads or tails.” “Heads?” The man nods and tosses the coin. Alan watches it glide through the air and land into the man’s palm. He spins it, flattening it onto the back of his hand. The man peaks at the coin and nods again. He struts over the debris and pulls out his wallet, untangles a five-dollar bill and slaps it onto the counter. “For the gum earlier.” Alan doesn’t speak. He avoids the man’s finding eyes. His mind switches between heads and tails, tails and heads. It still hasn’t processed entirely: the car that scathed by his body, the dead co-worker flat-pressed against the wall, and the fleeting cry of Marcus Aurelius before the final collision. He watches the man leave the shop and walk through the unlit lot. There’s choking. Alan finds the sound. The drunk in the driver’s seat is choking. He’s still fighting the seatbelt, the black snake shape that tugs against his throat. He’s been choking for a while, face bruising like the paint palette of The Starry Night. Alan hops the counter and he scampers to the drunk and tugs on the seatbelt creating a gap to breathe and the man fights and scratches but soon acquiesces and inhales breath and breath after - He hasn’t moved an inch. Alan watches from the counter. Muscles corded. His bones spun from steel, an immovable weight. He watches the man fight and worm and choke out his last breath. A trinity of lives crossed out. An engine growls outside. He finds the two taillights that beam carmine and light the darkness in a molten eb. The car jerks forward and starts down the road. The girl holds the stopwatch as the man finds his keys. “It’s done,” she says. “Zero.” “Then our work is done. Where next?” “A residence, 42 Oak Street. Someone forgot to turn off the gas.” The man looks one last time into the store. “Look what I found.” He opens the notebook and turns to the page of quotes. “What is it?” “I cannot escape death, but at least I can escape the fear of it.” They look at each other and giggle. He holds out his hand and she grabs on. “Let’s go,” he says. The car starts and peels onto the road before the engine rips and they streamline through the dark, kicking a storm of dust into the air and lighting the bumper sticker above the exhaust. When Death knocks, you answer.


<An Unforgiving Plan> *Chapter One* “Come on Susy, when have my plans not worked out?” Susy sighed in defeat knowing how persistent Gilly can be. The sun is about to set, and the two girls know they need to get back home before nightfall comes. At least Susy knows that. Gilly, on the other hand, prefers to close her eyes when she runs. “Gilly, I really don’t want to get caught...” Gilly rolled her eyes at that one, despite how scared Susy looks as they walk farther away from home. Stealth is not on their side as the mud under their feet sloshes with each step they take. Finally, Susy stops abruptly with her arms crossed declaring, “I’m not going to be responsible when the guards find out Gilly!” Surprisingly, this was enough to make Gilly stop in her tracks too, but the look on her face still hasn’t budged. Looking as annoyed as ever, Gilly moves right past what Susy said. “You really think they’ll find out with me in charge, Susy?” She rolls her eyes again when she sees Susy look behind her towards the town. “Those guards are just a bunch of fools; they’ll never catch us.” Susy relaxed a bit and took a deep breath. “Okay... but I’m only going so you aren’t alone.” Gilly smiled in victory and continued to walk off, Susy right at her heels. The sun had finally set, and the girls weaved in and out between the dark shops. With Gilly leading the way, the two girls arrive at the back of an apothecary. “Okay Susy, do you know what to do?” Susy nodded her head and crept up to the alley separating the apothecary from the library, using the dark night to hide her shadow. As she looked around there seemed to be nobody in sight, but it was hard to tell with the fog growing ever so slightly. As soon as Susy heard the *click* of a lock, she knew Gilly was done. “Pst! Get over here, Susy!” Taking one last look, Susy made her way back to Gilly’s side. As the two girls crept inside, the smell of sage and burnt paper filled their noses. Luckily there was a mat at the door to dry their muddy feet off. Once they got inside, the two of them reached under their thin, ripped coats and pulled out a satchel. “What did I say, Susy? Nobody in town can do what I just did!” Gilly had that look in her eye again, the one where she’s getting too caught up in herself. As Gilly began to look around like a kid on Christmas morning, Susy searched the display cases up and down. The rose-colored cloth under each case made the trinkets inside shine like diamonds. As the rain begins to pick up outside, the noise of their shoes on the hard wood floor seems almost inaudible. “Hey, Susy, get over here.” Susy creeped on over to where Gilly was and looked down into the display case. Her breath stopped short as her eyes gazed upon the most beautiful silk dress she’s ever seen. “There’s no way we can take this out with the rain so heavy, Gilly.” Susy was the only one of the two girls to ever think ahead. It made no difference now as Gilly looked at Susy and said, “I’ll be taking this dress, the rain has never stopped me before.” Susy knew in that moment that nothing had changed, Gilly is too arrogant to look at the cold hard facts of a situation. So, with one swift movement, Susy positioned herself between Gilly and the case. “Susy, you know better than that.” Gilly pushes Susy to the side, almost knocking her into the glass cabinet behind them. The chime of the grandfather clock sent a chill down both of their spines, finally acknowledging how late it truly was. The bite the cold water left on their skin was no match for the stare the two girls shared with each other. As Susy reclaimed herself her eyes burned into Gilly’s, speaking more words than either of them has said the entire night. Their emotions began to blind the girls, fogging their hearts the same as the rain outside fogged the windows. As Susy reclaims herself, she looks up at Gilly, the expression on her face the opposite of the timid girl she was before sunset. Susy looks over her shoulder, realizing her satchel was ripped in the fall. Shaking her head, she turns her back towards Gilly. The water dripping from her hair making her look like a different person. “I won’t play part in your games anymore.” Gilly, trying to cover the look of defeat on her face, mutters one last breath to Susy. “Let’s see how far you make it without me.” Before either of them can process what happens next, Susy steps outside in that bitter night to find that neither of them will be going home.


It was a time of Kings and Queens. Of full harvests and lavish parties. And, most importantly, of magic, abundantly. Or at least to my story. My mother was always proud of me, even when I broke something. My father, on the other hand, never wanted to see me doing anything other than housework with my physical two hands. Living in two different worlds was more comfortable than living my father’s standards of a daughter, at least until a sickness hit our small village. Mother and Father came home from the market, and by supper, she had collapsed on the floor. She couldn’t even lift her hand. It sizzled to touch her. Being the oldest daughter, I took on her responsibilities. I cleaned up after meals and made them. I got the little one ready for bed and ready for the day. I did my chores and helped them with theirs as usual but had to fit in mother’s as well. I would go to bed tired and wake up the same. I couldn’t hide it as well as Mother. That’s what Thomas, my eldest brother, told me when he forced me into a chair and started washing the supper dishes. He was tired as I was from working on the farm with Father and three of our younger brothers. But he always found the time to do the supper dishes or look after mother for a time to let me get a little more rest. Father never caught on. Never had an idea, until Thomas was brought to his knee in the fields when he couldn’t stop coughing. Father was extremely red when he busted through the front door with Thomas in his arm. He definitely wasn’t that way from being outside all day. Oh, how I wish it were. He dragged me from Thomas’ side. He dug his nails into my arm tight enough to pop the stitching on my sleeve. When we were alone, he threw me to the ground. "You Godforsaken progeny! What have you done?!" "Nothing! Nothing, I swear!" I told him. "Don't lie to me, you sinful wretch! You are a plague upon this house." “He wanted to help!” “It is not his duty. It’s yours!” He raised his open hand. I couldn’t look at him in the eye through the conversation, but never have I ever been scared to look at him. He was a good Christian man. The only time he hand raised his hand was with a farm tool in the fields. He had only raised to his voice to the crows and at Mr. Cornwall, who is deaf. Mother might be the one sick, but he was the sickening one. "Get back to work." He snarled, turning to leave. It wasn't the time for what I said next. I told him I could help them. I pleaded with him to let me. It was just what he needed to excuse his behavior. He slapped me off my knees back to the floor. "If you want to stay under my roof, you will never speak of this again!" I stayed there, on the floor, for the night. In the morning, I washed the grim of the floor off of me. Before I could get the kids ready, he took me to the market, like nothing happened last night. Like he didn't cause the burning in my cheek. Like he didn't hate what I could do, what I am. We traded our freshly harvested crops for meats and things we can’t make from corn or greens. After some convincing from me, Father got some herbs from the village physician to ease Mother and Thomas’ conditions. He had his fill of me after that. He left me outside of the smith as he inquired about some new tools for the rest of the harvest. I flopped up the hood of my cloak when people started to stare. I didn’t want to tell them how my mother was doing. Nor that Thomas is sick. Nor about my bruise. I didn’t know what to say, but how I was feeling, I was going to say the wrong thing: justifications and excuses. I stood alone with only the smell of rain to comfort me. Everyone moved around me as if I was reading a story. They buzzed around from stand to shop, blurring as supporting characters. Their faces didn’t matter. What they did had no importance outside of daily doing. Your eye bounced to them and away without a membrane of them. Except for one. He sat across the way under the arch of the old aqueduct system. His brown eyes, matching hair. Skin touched by the sun but not red like my father’s. A wall of giggling children hid the rest of him. My mouth was agape when he looked up at me. I look away, with his brown daggers digging into my soul. When I looked back, my right cheek matched my bruised one. I barely got another look at him before the heavens started to cry. The blurs scattered in mass, creating a wall between us. After the mass exodus, he was gone. The next day was Sunday. Anyone that went to the market would have been crucified. I wouldn’t tempt the temper of my father to try. Like the autumn leaves, my bruise change as Father increasingly worked the rest of my brothers. Taking their responsibility, they tried, but they were too young to pick up Thomas’ load. It was several days before we had sufficient funds to go back to the market. Father was moving slow. At the time, it felt like he was torturing me. Taking his time like he knew I wanted to be somewhere. Punishing me for it. As I know now, he worked so hard through the nights, giving me the chance to free my curiosity. He went into talk to smith, probably inquiring about borrowing his sons for work. It’s the only reason I could come up with to why he refused to tell me why I had to stay outside: to protect his pride. I really don’t care, though. He didn’t yell at me, and I got what I wanted. The boy was there again. His attention was taken up by a crowd of children, though smaller than last time. Hovering over blue woodland creature smoke figures, his hands danced around like puppet controls. I stared even when he met my gaze. Even giggled along with the children. I couldn’t help myself. I pulled out my notebook from my cloak. When mother taught me how to read and write was the only time mother and father argue in front of us when mother taught me how to read and write. I drew a picture of his act at the bottom of the page before Father had to pull me away. He didn’t scold me on the way home, so he must not have seen what the boy was doing. He would have been the first in line to stone or light the fire in King Uther’s court. I fear I’ll face that one day if Mother dies. That day came a lot sooner with how the rest of the day unfolded. I went on with my chores, but without my usual dedication. The corners of my mind were far more captivating. I knocked into Martha a few times, not helping with her new toddling. Nearly chopped off a finger or two. Hemmed Ruth’s dress cock-eyed. Started a fire in the kitchen. The rest I can’t admit to. All I wanted to do was mimic the boy. I’ve never seen anyone else do magic before. Not in this kingdom. Not out in public. It was either brave or extremely crazy. I had moved things and healed scraps, but I never created anything. The first few times nothing happened. I propped up my notebook on the table and focused on the picture as I shucking some peas. The fire in the cooking pot hid my cloud of smoke. By dinner, they were passable for animals, not bunnies and squirrels but animals. I passed out dinner. Only interrupted by baby Susanna’s babbling, the room was silent, like a sleepy night. My brothers could barely raise their spoons, and Father was like a stone. Life couldn’t get any sadder than this. The only relief came through a grave like sleep. The boys barely made it to their room before crashing into the floor. Father simply disappeared. I had to put and watch my little sister fall asleep. I still had two important tasks to undertake: help feed mother and Thomas. They’ve both grown weak. Neither of them could sit up on their own. They were merely planks of wood upon bedding. I nearly cried every time I went into their rooms. They both requested I feed the other first. Being the second one sick, Thomas had more force after all he was his father’s son. Mother never caught on. How could she? She didn’t know the difference between breakfast, lunch, and dinner anymore. She fell asleep before finishing. I wish I could too, but Thomas. I left her bowl on my chair and left with a ruckus. She didn’t wake but Paul, the son after me, did. I would have been sorry, but I had no time for that. Paul took my place and I went to Thomas. He was sneezing when I came in. “Just go to bed~” he barely said. “I will not.” I sat in front of him. “You will to~” he said, turning his head from the spoon. “I rather have you mad at me than Father. So you will eat then I can go to bed and everyone will be happy!” I said, every word being clearer than the last. He didn’t fight me anymore. Didn’t say another word. Just stared at me as he ate. “I’m sorry~,” he had a coughing fit, “I hate to see you this way.” I put the bowl aside. “Me too.” “I don’t... deserve... it.” He put his hand on his chest. “You deserve better.” Placing his other hand on mine. “Let me show you something.” With a smile and a giggle. With a flick of my hands, the blue spirits arose from the dirt on the floor. They hoped and spinned, dancing around the space between us. And Thomas’ face, well, I saw Mother in his eyes. The door crashed open. My figures disappeared whence they came. And as loud as he could, Thomas was yelling as I was ripped from his side. I was dragged through the house and thrown to the dirt of the road into town. When I looked up, all I saw was the flames in my father’s eyes. “You devil child! How dare you corrupt your brother with your sin?” He smacked again. “Leave and never come back!” He slammed the door, cutting me from the light of the candles. The sun rose in my face. My head hurt. All I could see was light. A hand touched my shoulder. And another on the other. I jumped before I saw a face. “Are you alright?” The boy’s face appeared, invading the light. I don’t know how. I was under the old aqueduct, sitting on the crate I saw him sitting in yesterday. “Are you alright?” I touched my forehead with my fingers coming back red. “No.” “You are coming with me.” He lifted me to my feet before I could say anything. I think I blacked out again. I don’t remember anything between crate and chair. Definitely not where and what building I was in. The boy sat in front of me with a cloth and a bowl of water. “Good Morning, again.” He dabbed my forehead. “What’s your name?” “Um...Dorothea.” “Well, Dorothea, I’m Merlin.” He washed the cloth. “You don’t mind if I asked what happened?” “My father has forsaken me.” “I’m sorry.” “He hates me for my magic.” He stopped everything, with his hand inches from my forehead. “I guess I was being careless.” “Like you didn’t know.” “I guess this wouldn't be inappropriate then.” He stood and brushed my hair out of my face. I can’t say I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t expect him to kiss my forehead. The light in my eyes disappeared and my head started to clear. When he moved, I touched my forehead: no blood. Merlin scrooched down, with his hand on my shoulders. “You should get some rest. There’s a bed in the back.” He looked like he needed more than I did now. But I was out of arguing power. I fell asleep as soon as my feet were off the ground. I felt my hair being moved. I open my eyes expecting to see Merlin’s. Instead, I was looking into a wide pair of green ones. I jumped, throwing myself into the back wall. “Are you sure she’s one of us, Merlin?” she yelled over her shoulder. Merlin stood on the other side of a table in the middle of the room. Another person sat on the table, with his back to me. “I’m quite sure.” “Only quite?” She flashed up next to him. “Extremely, Tessa!” She flashed again, sitting next to the other person. With my notebook in her hands, she said, “She does have a beautiful hand, both written and artistic.” The other turned to his side, yelling hey, grabbing my book back. “Tessa! Alwyn! Stop it.” He pushed them apart. She was in front of me again. “Let’s get you in something clean.” She pulled me up and dragged me out of where I still didn’t know. “Do you really think she’s the one?” Alwyn turned to Merlin. Merlin took my book from him. It was on the page where I drew his act. “I know it!” Tessa dragged me around the building in the woods. I ran into her when she stopped. “This is my house.” She pointed to a small rectangular box hanging on the side of the building. “Your house?” I asked, feeling my head. “Take my hand. I’ll show you.” I thought she was crazy, but I took her hand. In a flash of light, we stood in a doorway, high above the ground. “Don’t look down, dearie,” she instructed, pulling me in. It looked like the inside of the other house. A table was in the middle. A kitchen and setting area to the left. A bed and another door, Tessa sat me in the bed and went through the door. “So, Dorothea, do you want to wear trousers like me or a dress like you?” “Dress. Please,” I stuttered. “Fine, stick with tradition.” She walked back in, with two dresses draped over her arms. “Pink or blue?” “Blue.” “It will bring out your eyes. Yes blue.” She sat that one next to me and ran back to the door. “What is going on?!” “I shrank us so we can fit in my house. All fairies live in houses like this.” “Fairies?” “Yes, fairies. Did Merlin not explain?” “And the one with the pointed ears?” “Alwyn. He’s an elf. Merlin didn’t explain anything to you.” “What about Merlin?” “Just like you, dearie.” She pulled me close. “Let me tell you everything.”


How shall I kill you? Let me count the ways. I’ve thought of baking you alive, rather like my signature pig’s head en croute, but my oven couldn’t really manage all of you. Not all at once, anyway. Perhaps a bomb would be better. Faster, cleaner. But I don’t want fast. Or clean. I want slow and dirty so you get just an inkling of the pain you’ve caused me. No, agony . Pure, lacerating, mental agony. Yes, I have to destroy your peace of mind, your heart and soul. Especially your heart. Like you destroyed mine, you bastard swine! All those times you laughed and joked with Caroline and me, except it was Caroline’s jokes you laughed at. You smiled at mine. ‘I think he fancies you,’ I told her. ‘Matt! Fancy me?’ She roared with laughter. It wasn’t that funny. ‘You’ve got an over-active imagination, Vernon! Go and put the carrots on.’ Sleek and elegant was Caroline, and she got sleeker and more elegant the longer we were married. While I just got fatter and squatter. Like I could defy the nature of my calling! Poisoning. I gave that serious thought. But LEEDS’ PREMIER OFFAL CHEF HOSPITALISES LOVE RIVAL isn’t a happy headline. And then it hit me. I couldn’t poison you, but I could get you to poison yourself. Brilliant, eh? All those niggling little comments from Caroline about Matt’s amazing Vietnamese recipes - ‘Well, he’s been there, hasn’t he? Studied with the locals. You can’t do better than that.’ ‘By “you”,’ I ask her, ‘you mean “me”? And how do you know his recipes are amazing?’ That shuts her up. She mutters something about ‘all the compliments he’s had’ and immediately changes the subject. And I know she’s had a meal with you - and at your place. No one takes a steaming bowl to a park bench. And if you’ve put hot food in my wife’s belly, then what else - ? I can’t finish the thought. My stomach’s a tight fist. My brain’s boiling with rage and pain. Look what you’ve done to me, Caroline, when I love you so much my heart’s fit to burst! So, when I can find a spare moment, I look up Vietnamese recipes and - bingo! - there it is. Lemongrass chilli mushroom stir-fry. With shiitake mushrooms. Mushrooms and I have a history. When I was young and stupid, some really stupid mates persuaded me to drop some magic mushrooms. Only there was nothing magic about them. I’m not even sure they were mushrooms. Six hours later, when I’d finished throwing up, I vowed never to touch a mushroom - any mushroom - again. Of course, I have. Well, you can’t offer a full offal menu without the odd button or beefsteak. But that’s beside the point. What if smarty pants Matthew - yes, you, you treacherous sod! - picked the wrong mushroom? I’ll have warned you enough - in front of witnesses, I’ll make sure of that. But you breeze ahead, anyway. Which, of course, you’ll do. I’ll make sure of that, too. ‘Invite Matt to dinner?’ says Caroline when I suggest it. Her face can’t decide whether to show disbelief or panic. The panic gives me a little twist of triumph, and pain. ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’ ‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘I just fancied trying one of these Vietnamese dishes you rave about. A chef has to keep learning.’ ‘Oh,’ she says, just puzzled now. ‘But you’re an offal specialist.’ ‘That’s why Matt can do the cooking,’ I beam. ‘I’ll pay for the ingredients. I’ve even got my eye on a recipe. Apparently it’s one of the best.’ Her face is back to disbelief. ‘But if you don’t think he’s up to it,’ I say. ‘Obviously he’s bound to find me a bit intimidating - ’ ‘Oh I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ Caroline steps in quickly. ‘Well,’ I smile reassuringly, ‘if you really think so.’ It still takes over a month to fix a date. Caroline tells me you’re very busy. Or perhaps it’s just the bowel-draining terror of confronting your lover’s cuckolded but still pathetically loyal husband? Especially when your culinary skills are about to be exposed as worthless crap! Actually, I can do with the time. What I’m looking for is something reassuringly lethal, and you won’t find that in the local wholesaler’s (no, really, I’ve checked). My extensive researches on Google tell me my best bets are the encouragingly named Deadly Webcap, Death Cap or Destroying Angel, all of which, apparently, grow wild in the UK. But how to find them? I’ve precious little spare time as it is and Caroline’s bound to notice if I spend it skulking around the local woods. Next thing I know Fatiq, my unusually hairy sous-chef, and my usual relief cook both go sick and I’m working double shifts. Days pass in an offal-scented blur, which leaves little enough time for sleep, let alone scheming. Then one morning, as I leave, I can’t help noticing Caroline’s scrubbing the kitchen worktop like she’s trying to remove the Formica. ‘Well, I don’t want Matt thinking my kitchen is anything less than spotless, do I?’ she says. And, with a sickening jolt, I realise the date. The meal’s just two days away. I’m going to have to eat this bastard’s culinary catastrophe without even the pleasure of seeing him die in agony! ‘And don’t think you’re leaving all this to me!’ Caroline knees the overflowing waste bin towards me. ‘You can empty this for starters.’ I calmly point out that I am understaffed, working eighteen hours a day and currently late and, when we’ve finished shouting, I take the bin out. The dustbin is at the bottom of the garden by the door to the ginnel. An area that doesn’t get much attention, and only gets it now because I manage to knock over the dustbin and upend the contents of the waste bin onto the weed-strewn path, all in one smooth movement. But it’s as I kick the spilled waste into a patch of leaf mould, that I see it. Deadly Webcap, as I live and breathe. Though you won’t for much longer, Matthew matey! I’ve stared at the images long enough. Two fattish yellowy-brown stems, each about three inches high. I even find a paper bag in the rubbish to pick them up with. What’s left I grind into the leaf mould with my size tens. No point in leaving evidence, is there? Checking I’m unobserved from the house, I hide the paper bag in the garden tool store, and scoot out through the ginnel, grinning like an idiot. That night I finish late. Caroline’s asleep when I get in. I’m so knackered I can barely stand, but pulling on a pair of old Marigolds, mincing the webcap and popping it into a small deli pot which I hide on the topmost kitchen shelf - the one Caro can’t reach - gives me all the energy I need. I chuck Marigolds and mincing knife in the bin and go to bed happy. Which is more than you’ll do tomorrow, soon-to-be-a-memory Matt! ‘You will be on your best behaviour, won’t you, Vernon?’ Caroline asks warily fifteen minutes after he should have arrived. She only calls me ‘Vernon’ when she’s annoyed with me, or feeling guilty. Looks like a double whammy today. ‘Sweetness,’ I assure her, smilingly. ‘I’ll treat him with kid gloves.’ ‘Sweetness’ only makes her even warier. Must stop that. Then the door bell rings. Enter my love rival. Imagine the tigerish charisma of a young Harrison Ford, the wisdom of a Mahatma and the glasses of Clark Kent. Well, that’s Caroline’s view. All I see is a long thin streak of piss, leaning over me with watery eyes, slobbery lips and a what-did-I-just-step-in look. Oh and the glasses are round, wire-rimmed Nazi torturer style. Funny how Caroline missed that. Naturally I’m left standing like an over-ripe lemon as they spend the first five minutes gushing over each other. Finally, I snatch the two carrier bags the piss-streak’s holding. ‘Tonight, young Matthew,’ I announce, ‘I am your sous chef. I’ll just set up in the kitchen.’ His face drops. ‘Oh no. I'm used to working on my own.’ Suddenly we’re playing tug-of-war with Waitrose bags for life. ‘I’m sorry, Matthew. I have professional standards in my kitchen. I can’t possible compromise them.’ ‘Oh Vernon, you make beans on toast in your underpants!’ snaps Caroline. ‘Let the man get on with it.’ With magnificent restraint I say calmly, ‘But how else am I going to learn his wisdom, darling?’ Caroline’s face is wide-eyed disbelief. But you, you narcissistic twat, you buy it! ‘Well,’ his grip relaxes, ‘if you’re happy to give me a free hand - ’ Why not, I scream silently. You’re fingering everything else I hold precious! In the kitchen Caroline hovers, clearly hoping to keep the peace. We watch you set out the ingredients. I prod a container. ‘So are these the shit ache mushrooms, then, Matthew?’ ‘Actually it’s pronounced “shi-tar-kay”, Vernon,’ you say. ‘And do call me “Matt.”’ ‘Right you are, Matthew,’ I smile, ignoring Caroline’s quick glare. ‘Got to be careful with mushrooms, you know. Mistake could be very nasty.’ ‘I’m sure Matt knows what he’s doing,’ Caroline chimes in. I’m sure he bloody does, too, but not in the kitchen! ‘To save time,’ you say, ‘I’ve already minced the lemongrass and the garlic in my mini-blender at home.’ ‘I’d never have known to do that, Matthew,’ I say. ‘Do tell me more.’ And you’re off. I can’t express the joy I get from being patronised by a literally steaming idiot. Even Caroline sidles off after five minutes - ‘to set the table’, which she did two hours ago. Ten minutes later all my nods, smiles and ‘wows’ of admiration have reduced me to a seething frenzy. ‘And we’re done,’ you beam at me. I look at you blankly, befuddled by the red mist. Your beam broadens. ‘Plates when you’re ready, Vernon.’ I hand them over. ‘You know,’ he adds as he fills them, ‘when Caroline first mentioned what you did I thought she said you were an “awful” chef.’ You chuckle, spindly shoulders heaving. ‘That’s hysterically amusing, Matthew,’ I say. Your face straightens. ‘Actually, Vernon, I’m glad we have this chance to talk. I have a little confession to make. About Caroline and I.’ My blood freezes. If I were holding a meat cleaver, which sadly I’m not, the handle would be splintering in my hand. At least you have the decency to look nervous. ‘But let’s eat first,’ you say brightly, reaching for the plates. Then start as I squeeze in front of you. ‘Let me do that, Matthew. After your incredible generosity, the least I can do is provide the service.’ Wisely, you nod. ‘Of course.’ ‘Make yourself comfortable. Be there in two shakes.’ I stand deathly still, heart thumping, till I hear voices from the front room. Then I whip open the cupboard, scramble around the top shelf for my deadly deli pot. Just as my fingers snag the lid, Caroline bursts in. ‘Vernon, what’s the hold up? Matt says it has to be served steaming!’ The pot snaps upright under my fingers. The lid pops off. Mushroom fragments spray the worktop. They’re in my face, my hair, the FOOD! AAAAAGH! ’ ‘Vernon, what are you doing!’ ‘It’s a garnish,’ I gabble. ‘Last minute touch.’ ‘Touch? It’s more like a punch! It’s everywhere!’ She reaches for a plate. ‘Don’t touch! DON’T TOUCH! ’ She’s staring at me as if I’m going mad. I am going mad. Grabbing a knife I begin scraping the top layer off each serving, sweeping dollops into the sink. Caroline’s still staring at me. ‘Vernon,’ she says, ‘you’re wasting half the meal! Let me - ’ ‘ NO! ’ I make her jump. ‘I’ll be there - I’ll be there!’ ‘Vernon,’ she warns, ‘you come straight in.’ And, thank God, she goes. I want to bite my knuckles. I want to scream. OFFAL CHEF SLAUGHTERS SELF, SPOUSE AND FANCY MAN IN MUSHROOM MISHAP. The headline burns itself into my brain. How can I have been so maniacally stupid? How can I have put my beloved’s life at such an insane risk! What was I thinking ! Actually, at the minute, I’m finding thinking a teeny bit hard. But I know I have to face you and Caroline. I gather up the plates. I may have piled them on top of each other. ‘Vernon!’ Caroline shrieks at me as I walk into the living room. ‘Why have you piled the plates on top of each other!’ I look down. Fried mushrooms are mysteriously dripping all over the carpet. You and Caroline stare at me, which strikes me as quite rude. You’re sitting at opposite ends of the dining table, leaving an empty seat between them. It feels like an inquisition. ‘Why don’t you join us, Vernon?’ you say. You look as if I might attack you with a meat cleaver, which feels like a familiar thought. ‘OK.’ I nod, but I have to put the plates down first. For some reason the floor has started billowing like the sea and I’m afraid I’ll drop something. Sitting helps a bit, but it doesn’t stop the walls and the ceiling gently billowing, too. ‘Vernon,’ you say, ‘I’m afraid I’m here under slightly false pretences.’ I try to look at you, but your face seems to be subtly changing colour, like you’re getting sunburned and sea-sick in alternating waves. It’s quite distracting. ‘I think Caroline has given the impression we’re friends, and in a way we are now, but I’m actually her therapist.’ You peer at me, as if you’re expecting something. ‘You do know what a therapist is, Vernon?’ ‘Vernon!’ Caroline snaps. For a second I’m afraid I’ll throw up. ‘I was worried about you. About your anger issues.’ ‘Me? Angry?’ Her face is a picture of such furious disbelief I burst out giggling. She stares at me in horror. And then I feel very ill. My head thumps onto the table top. ‘I’d avoid the stir fry if I were you,’ I say. ‘I think it’s - off.’ I wake up in Leeds Infirmary. Turns out I have abnormal sensitivity to psilocybin-based fungi. It takes me a while to realise they’re talking about magic mushrooms. One touch and I’m higher than Eckersthwaite Pike. Apparently shrooms are easy to confuse with Deadly Webcap, or any other wild mushroom when you’re stressed out of your mind, sleep-deprived and deeply depressed, which, of course, is normal in any decently run restaurant kitchen. But that’s all behind me now. Caroline’s insisted I take a break. I’ve even had a session with you know who. Apparently I do have anger issues. Who knew! Apart from Caroline, that is. Luckily, though, you assume my lacing the stir fry with hallucinogens was a crude attempt to make you confess to knocking off Caroline. An understandable delusion in my over-stressed state. ‘We’re very lucky, Vernon,’ you tell me, ‘you didn’t mistake it for something far more deadly!’ How we laughed. I’m a little disappointed, though, that Caroline decides to regard my behaviour as a slur on her virtue rather than a sign of my deep, abiding love. But once she lets me back into the bedroom, and I’ve weaned her off takeaways, I’m sure we’ll be fine. Next week, though, I’m back in the kitchen and back to normal, thank God! And the first thing I’m going to do is wring the thick hairy neck of that malingering mound of rancid offal fat Fatiq for bunking off when I’m clearly at screaming point. He is DEAD, DEAD, DEAD! /ends


As of this afternoon, although restrictions have intensified across the country and the globe, the stun has lifted for me a bit. The panic and nervousness has lessened, but I still feel my eyes open in shock -- at least they are able to absorb what is going on, notice things that I may not see again in this lifetime. The way that teachers go on parades in local neighborhoods because they miss their students, colored banners and signs out the windows. How last week, a man saw a girl dancing on her rooftop and he asked her out on a date via drone, and they face-timed at separate tables from their own roofs. How he walked around in a bubble holding flowers for her he hopes to one day give her. How I hope they make it. Somehow in the midst of all this, it became all about the little things... the things that we so often do not notice here in the west because we live on such a grand scale. Bigger better harder faster stronger, our internal mantra hypnotizing us into consumerism and fast-paced living without our knowledge. The good that we are starting to see is vital to not just human life, but the continuation of it, in a time where that is uncertain. Naturally, as one or many do in a global pandemic, consecutively and consequentially we begin speculating. And once one starts speculating, it is difficult to stop, like an unwarranted brainstorm, the storm in this reference being quite literal. We may cease if we had gotten or would get some answers, but for weeks and weeks, there were none. Whether it was over conversations at bonfires we would have around the lake in the coming weeks while on lockdown or on our own quarantined in our living rooms, we would type 'c' into our search bars on the web and watch 'coronavirus' automatically pop up. Clicking on it reflexively would take us to the known facts, the ones that still didn't give us any answers. When Google loads your request and pulls up the search results around the pandemic, everything is in red. Scrolling past the 'SOS Alert' and 'Emergency' tabs highlighted in crimson, past the headlines meant to make your heart skip a beat, past the signs and symptoms, the do's and don'ts of how to personally handle your own hygiene and safety, was a map. You could see the colored variations of the spikes in diseases along the hemispheres, wondering if this was related to any lateral concept, or any concept at all. Wondering if there were any hints that we were missing, we understood that it was clear we could name this virus, but we could not predict it. Not even the heads of hundreds of the most intelligent and educated scientists in the world could... so what was I thinking, imagining I could solve the mysteries of the universe from my living room after binge-watching Tiger King just to understand the memes circulating? There was a natural and human inclination for all of us to attempt to get a mental handle on all that was reverting to chaos around us. In this grapple for understanding, we become more intense, heightened versions of ourselves. I lean back on the ottoman and watch the rain knock lightly on my window, an inanimate, non-autonomous thing that seemed to have a mind of its own, leaving marks on the things it does not know it touches, cleansing, yet potentially deadly. I bite my lip and try not to relate the splendor of rain to the nondiscriminatory hurricane that has been passing through the bodies of humans. I think how speculation has led to some sort of acceptance. I think about how last week, I didn't see it coming, but at 4:00pm on a Friday all of a sudden it hit me that there is a 99% possibility that life as we know it has changed forever. It's something you live with an awareness of, but then the conscious revelation of it makes you a bit lightheaded. I was now out of the panic and the shock, the shock that didn't feel like shock as much as it did a dull ache of inability to take all this as seriously as I maybe should have, and soon after that comes the landing. And as I am landing, I realize I am not settling as much as I am sinking into this new reality. The pressure confines me to a small speck of land in the middle of an unknown, uncharted ocean. I am too near-sighted to see another place to swim toward, maybe one with a larger surface area and other paths to walk. Instead I am alone here on this island of mine, limited in understanding. The new realities that we approach as people are not things that we will approach as much as we will fall into. What will they look like? How constricting will they be? The curious among us turn into scientists, the most bitter of us turn into critics, the extremists turn into evangelists, the lost into scavengers, but all of us would become a bit more human. I was a little bit of all of those things. I would stare at the map on my phone, littered with red blotches in contemplation, then silently shame humanity for all that we had done to Earth. I would scold myself for not praying five times a day like I meant to, then scour the internet for memes or wholesome articles, then resolve into the scavenge: looking for the good in the gray areas of the unknown waters that we charted. The format of this in present-day circumstances was sending memes to people even if only to incite laughter, kickstarting our hearts back into a soft place, or forwarding wholesome articles and videos promote positivity in a time that felt so bleak. We became human in that we search, rake through the fear, the unknown, for the promise, the proof that just because humans are dying at faster rates, humanity is not yet gone.


BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP The alarm stirred James awake from a deep sleep. Feeling groggy, he rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. 8:00 a.m. It was Monday morning and time to get ready for work, but he wished he could stay in bed all day. There was nothing to look forward to out there. After gulping a sour energy shot, downing a tasteless breakfast bar, brushing his teeth and getting dressed, James was almost ready to go. The final step in his morning routine, he opened the two cases on his desk that held his ARmor contact lenses and earpieces. Holding his eye open with one hand, he used the index finger on his other hand to pop the lens in one eye, then the other. They weren’t for seeing, his eyesight was fine, they were for projections. Using augmented reality technology, the lenses created a virtual interface over the real world, displaying information above people’s heads or showing videos when he looked at blank surfaces. He then put in the earpieces, two black dots the size of a penny that fit into his ear perfectly. “Do I have everything I need for work?” James voiced the question out loud, though nobody else was in his apartment. “You are forgetting your keys. They are on the kitchen counter.” The woman’s voice who spoke back in his ear was Tessa, his virtual assistant. “Thanks Tessa,” he said as he walked over to the counter to grab the keys. He didn’t need to thank her, but for some reason it felt right. James hadn’t liked the ARmor lens and earpiece set at first, it made him feel disconnected from other people, but after a few months he started to get used to it. Everyone else used them, and he wanted to fit in. As he left his apartment and locked his door, James looked at his watch again. 8:30 on the dot. The same time he left every day. He walked down the two flights of stairs and out of the building into the cold, foggy morning weather. Taking a left, he began his daily walk to the train station. He looked at the woman walking just ahead of him on the sidewalk. When he squinted his eyes, a box of information appeared above her head. Her name was Mary. Her content queue was filled with electronic music. Near the bottom of the box was a red Do Not Disturb notice. He had gotten used to seeing that. It seemed everyone kept it on in public at all times. Below the notice was a “Request Conversation” option that he could select with his eyes if he wanted to say something to her, and it would give her the choice of whether to hear him through her earpiece or keep his voice muted. But there was no reason to try that. He didn’t have anything to say anyway. The brisk pace James walked with brought him to the station just before the 8:40 commuter train arrived. As he reached the platform gate, he looked at the camera that scanned his eye lenses to identify him and deduct one ride credit from his account. The gate lifted and he walked onto the platform. When the train door opened, he saw that all of the seats were taken. Rows of commuters sat upright in silence, earpieces in, staring at the surfaces on the backs of the seats in front of them. As he moved his focus from a tall, brown-haired man to a short blonde woman, he noticed they all had their Do Not Disturb signs turned on. He knew that each of them were watching their own videos that no one else could see, but the way they all sat frozen with their eyes open staring forward made them look like robots. He felt lonely, wishing he could go back to the days when people talked to each other in public. Near the doors where the people without a seat stood, a large white canvas offered them a surface on which they could project their own videos. Three people held the metal pole and stared at the same blank canvas. As he squinted at each of them, he saw two had the morning news at the top of their content queue and one had sports. All three had the same Do Not Disturb notice. James didn’t have his Do Not Disturb notice turned on, but nobody ever talked to him anyway. They were all so engrossed in their own content. Feeling bored, he looked at the same surface as the other standers. He hadn’t put anything in his queue before he left, so a list of options popped up. He didn’t care about the news or sports, so he selected the cartoon option with his eyes. Then a list of cartoons appeared and he selected Tom & Jerry. He always went with the classics. He had already seen all of the episodes, but it distracted him just enough to get the 20-minute train ride over with. When it reached his stop, several people stood up and filed out in an orderly line. He took his place on the escalator that brought him to the street. Crossing to the other side of the street, he entered the grey building where he worked. He walked in and scanned his eye into the camera, the same type they had at the station, then took the elevator to the 14th floor. Passing a row of cubicles, he saw everyone sitting in silence with their earpieces in and Do Not Disturb notices on. He reached his cubicle, turned on his computer and saw a message from his boss. It gave him a list of his tasks for the day. “On it. Thanks.” James messaged back. His boss was in the corner office, but they only communicated through the message application. Several hours passed as James completed his tasks. He kept his eyes on his screen all day, only leaving for bathroom breaks. He hadn’t spoken to a single person all day. His work didn’t require talking to anyone and he didn’t know any of them well enough to try to start a conversation. Plus they all had their Do Not Disturb Notices turned on, so it would have been rude to try. When the clock read 5:00 p.m., James left the building and walked back to the train station, returning home the way he came. He microwaved a dinner plate and watched videos for a few hours until it was dark. Then he took a sleeping pill and went to bed. Tuesday passed with the same routine. Alarm, breakfast bar, lenses, earpieces, train, office, home, dinner plate, videos, sleeping pill. Then Wednesday. Alarm, breakfast bar, lenses, earpieces, train, office, home, dinner plate, videos, sleeping pill. On Thursday morning he woke feeling more depressed than usual. For a second he considered calling out of work, but he needed to hit his quota for the month. As soon as he turned left out of his building he saw something strange. An energetic boy was throwing a tennis ball against the telephone pole, running to where it bounced, catching it and then throwing it again. Skinny with curly black hair, the boy looked to be about 10 years old. The boy was so focused on his game he didn't notice James until he was just a few feet away. When he saw him, the boy stopped throwing the ball and turned toward James. “Good morning mister! How are you today?” The shock of hearing the boy speak to him caused James to jump back, looking startled. Before he could think of something to say, the boy was speaking again. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?” James cleared his throat. “Yes I’m fine. Just a bit surprised is all. You’re the first person who’s spoken to me in at least three days.” “THREE DAYS! That’s crazy!” Raising his voice, the boy sounded confused. “My mom talks to me every day. And she says I should talk to people when I’m outside playing.” “And why does she say that?” “She says that’s the way people used to act before they all had earpieces in. She says they’ve turned everyone into anti-social robots.” James pondered the idea for a second. “Well she may be on to something there.” “Think fast!” The boy tossed the tennis ball to James. Not expecting it, James flailed his arms quickly and missed as the ball bounced off him and rolled down the street. “Why’d you do that?” James asked the boy, who skipped down the street to pick up the ball. “I don’t know!” He shouted back. “Throwing the ball is fun, and you looked like you could use some fun.” “You don’t think I have fun?” “You don’t look like it. You look like a sad old man.” “Well that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone,” said James halfheartedly, cringing at the brief thought that the kid might be right. “You don’t have to be sad. Try talking to people. Maybe that’ll cheer you up.” Again, the young boy had made James pause to think. “You know what, maybe you’re right. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. What’s the worst that could happen?” “That’s the spirit!” “I’ve got to go. I’m going to miss my train.” As James turned to walk toward the station, a faint smile crept onto his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled. He walked faster than normal to make up the time he had lost, and when he saw the train approaching he broke into a light jog to make it into the platform in time. He reached it just as the doors opened, and he filled in with the group of people getting onto the train. The seats were all taken again, so he remained standing. Excited with the thoughts that the boy had put in his mind, James looked around for someone to talk to, turning his head frantically and shifting his focus from person to person. They all had their Do Not Disturb notices turned on. James decided he would request a conversation with one of the other people standing. He looked toward a thin, pale woman and selected the Request Conversation option. Immediately, a REJECTED note flashed in red. She looked at him with an annoyed expression and then turned away from him. He tried the same thing with a man in a suit with slick black hair. REJECTED. Then he tried a round-faced, young man wearing a baseball hat. REJECTED. An older, gray-haired woman. REJECTED. His frustration grew into anger. Why wouldn’t any of these people talk to him? They weren’t doing anything else besides watching videos. It didn’t make any sense. Turning back to the man with the hat, James inched closer to him and waved both of his hands excitedly in front of the man’s face. The man looked disturbed. James took out his earpieces and motioned for the man to do the same. Grudgingly, he obliged. “What’s the matter with you?” The man snapped at him. “Nothing. I just wanted to talk to somebody. What’s your name?” “None of your business. Find somebody else to talk to if you’re so eager. I’m in the middle of a show and have nothing else to say to you.” The man put his earpieces back in and pushed his way through to the other end of the train. Heart pounding and feeling embarrassed, James decided he wasn’t going to give up just yet. Hearing the man’s voice, though hostile, had still excited him the same way the boy’s had. James put his hand on the shoulder of the man in the suit, who turned around took look at James. James again motioned for the man to take out his earpiece. When he did, the man shouted at James. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re bothering everybody on this train! I’m alerting security.” The man pressed a blue button near the door. Within seconds, a security guard burst through the door at the end of their train car. “Security! This man has been harassing everybody. Please take him off the train.” Just as the man said it, the train began slowing to a stop. “We know. We saw him on the cameras.” The officer turned to James. “Put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.” “Under arrest? For what?” James was stunned. “For disturbing the peace.


My name is Dennis Homer Love Jr. As a child in the 1980s I became the first underaged person recognized by the United States government for helping efforts involving the CIA during the Ronald Reagan presidency. Many other kids were recognized after me, but it seems there efforts were not life threatening as mine were. I was privileged to work with or along side of some of Stephen Shaffer's clandestine work involving such people as Barry Seal, Pablo Escobar, Manuel Noriega, Oliver North and South American people that were to be used in an army that would take over locations in various South American countries and create a new country governed by democracy that ultimately would be backed by the USA. Turns out it was a clandestine tactic used to trick Pablo into giving up all his cartel locations used in producing and smuggling cocaine and other durgs into the United States. The CIA got as much information as possible and the executed an airstrike destroying all the locations they knew of with the U. S. Navy from an aircraft carrier off of Peru. Of course under the permission of then president Ronald Reagan. Setting Pablo's cocaine industry back but not out of commission. During all the time I was involved I ended up getting left in South America for a more extended time than planned on. Long story short when I was finally brought back to America by my pastor Fred J Foster he dropped me off on a well known military base in Louisiana called Barks Dale Air Force Base. Truns out I had body parts and military documents of interest to national security at the time. Not really what anyone would call secret but compromising documents of military interest to say the least. I guess you could call me at that time a very patriotic kid as far as believing in the United States of America 🇺🇸👍 and as a man I still do. 😈🇺🇸👍Go Air Force. When I was a child in grammar school Stephen Shaffer of the CIA came and got me one day at Central Elementary School of Calhoun Louisiana. He took me to Mena Arkansas on Barry Seals land where there was a private airport. There was South Americans there who where training with the CIA learning military tactics for a war that never really got fought. Pablo Escobar flew in on a Cessna and Stephen and I where to fly down to Colombia South America to take pictures of the Medellin cartel's durg production. Stephen didn't trust Pablo and thought he would have a better chance at coming back with a kid going along. I had previously met Pablo at Mena with Barry Seal and other CIA and FBI officials. I was there with the boss of the water service company my dad worked for. We where there in Mena delivering a pressure tank to improve the water pressure on Barry Seals land. While in Colombia I met hundreds of kids South Americans staying on the cartels housing. Despite the horrible condition of drug slavery to Pablo Escobar. The South Americans that he had in his control actually had a better from of life with his cartel than they would on there on. However the majority of the drug slaves started out as bought or given from there parents four to five year olds that were kept in cartel housing consisting of a large building for shelter on top of a southern Colombian Mt top. That had dirt floor and a kitchen of sorts were they would make fresh tortilla chips and other simple but wonderful tasting food. It wasn't hard for it to be wonderful because that's all they had. Most all of the boys and girls there were skinny but they had a sick notion of death that is how they embraced looking at it. They were not scared of death as American kids were. There religious views gave them this fascination with death but it was more of a respect than fascination. Despite this and the condition of slavery these kids had the best and most beautiful spirit and attitude towards life. They were very loving and caring kids not like you would find in America due only to environment. I do wish they could have had a chance at freedom in America like all the kids I grew up with. But picking coca leaves and cocaine production and transportation is what life had in-store for them. As long as they followed the rules and obeyed the cartel killers they had a pretty good life but not all of them would be lucky even ones that obeyed were killed at the whim of the cartel killers when the killers were trying to make an example or just horribly wasting lives. The kids grew up in this environment and they were tougher than you could imagine and each one worthy of the best love and environment any American kid has received and took for granted I'm sure. It was a time that happened and I was there as a witness in the late 1980s in Pablo Escobar's Medellin Cartel housing on top of a southern Colombian Mt top with in walking and viewing distance of the equator. Which is were a sacrificial pit was carved out of the Mt top and were the cartel would burn and destroy bodies from the organ harvesting that was just as big part of the cartel as the durgs were. There was sex education there too. I know I'm not the only one who has went through this but I would guess people like me and my experiences in sex this way are very few and far between. While in Colombia South America in the compound Pablo Escobar used to house his drug trade workers as a grammar school child I was having sex with a Colombian woman and was almost at the peak of what a grammar school boy should have had for one of his first sexual experiences when a cartel killer that had his mind on doing what he did the whole time came up and pulled his pistol out and shot the woman in the head while I was directly on top of her and her face that I was concentrating on suddenly became something that would scar me sexually for the rest of my life with her precious smile turning in an instant to something that would horrify even the most mature. After this the cartel killer wasn't though messing with me and proceeded to cut her up exposing her internal organs and forcing me to help him cut her liver out completely whole without any unnecessary cutting of the liver as a strict punishment if I did. After removing her liver he took it to the kitchen were he proceeded to cut it up as if it were a piece of meat for the market. He fried it up and placed it on the table that evening for supper needless to say I had lost my appetite and did not desire to be around him for some time. The other killers kept criticising me and tried to boost my confidence until I finally got the courage to do the same thing to him I caught him on top of another woman and before he could react I shot his woman in the head the same way except I didn't have any interest in her liver and he showed me his respect from that day forward promising not to do it again as long as I promised the same. Some life lesson I had been forced to destroy something as beautiful as sex by being exploited in death with the pull of a trigger needless to say I have a real hard time forming any kind of bond with a woman. Unfortunately it didn't stop there he noticed that I became very friendly with some mature young teenage Columbian boys that were working in the fields of coca trees and sleeping with them at night I formed a bond very quickly with one in particular that I grew a crush on and basically became his boyfriend and was sleeping with him every night one night weeks after the woman incident the cartel killer came up behind us and I could only think up he was choking him out while we were hooked up but as it turns out he didn't pass out his throat had been cut and I began to have the most tramadic sexually experience of my life he fell limp on to my back and the other boys w told me he was dead but I couldn't believe it I was a child I had no reason to believe it. As his blood ran down my back as I attempted to stand up and kept calling out to him but he wouldn't respond the blood hit the floor with a heavyness that will never forget it sounded like the empting of a full bucket being poured out at once and sent me into a panic that took some of the other boys working together to calm me down long enough for another one to get him loose off of me because rigamortous had set in and I was screaming as I pulled him like a slay back and for over there blankets and them trying to get free convinced he wasn't dead because he wouldn't let go. Then once calmed down the cartel killers demanded that his body be throwed in the pit and only one boy stepped up and offered to help me. As we proceeded to get it over with on the way to the pit it became to difficult to carry him together and the boy decided it would be easier to finish cutting of his head that was hanging by very little and kept slinging back and forth on to his grip he had on him. He decided it was too much indeed for both of us and said if I would carry his head he would carry his torso the rest of the way. By the time I got to the pit I had become carzy temporarily because of all the stress and began to kiss his head crying and sobbing turning into laughing as I tried to push it out of my mind that it even happened. But as I went back and took a shower with the boy who helped me we went back to lay down on the floor to sleep and I realized that I would never really get over it or the women that had been killed and attribute that to my main difficulties forming a bond with any one I love. Having my only sexual relationship with a friend who had a girlfriend and was just really putting me on feeling sorry for me though he never knew about my experiences in South America he would only help me out when I needed him the most and sadly in 2007 after he was having a break down of sorts he took his own life in front of me with a shotgun to the head I tried to get to him in time but he had already pulled the trigger and fell back I reached out to him only grasping a little of his body mass picking him up from the ground to hold him in my arms as I yelled into his face calling out his name he seemed to almost come to one last time and sincing that I was near as if he heard me his face began to smile then fade away into a motion less shattered version of it's original form. He spoke to me repeated before saying that his one wish in life was to kill himself in front of someone that really loved him I always thought he was kidding but it has been my experience in the past that there is never any joking around when suicide is concerned and I do not take lightly to the matter of people making fun of that type of comment. Your life is precious and beautiful no matter how painful or sorrowful it becomes stick it out and hang on. It will get better. It will never rain every day hold on to something stronger than you are. Reach out to the Lord and ask Jesus for help and he will get you though another day. One day at a time and every day is a good day if you don't believe me try missing one it just can't and shouldn't be done. The truth is something that people rarely embrace and even more seldomly tell anyone much less totally stangers but I feel what you hold in secret will destroy you and what you speak honestly about you will be forgiven and Jesus is the only one that I seek forgiveness from and the only person I owe all my life to. I pray to always be as honest as that about everything in my life but it's not easy when it's not tramadic when you see it as every day sin.During my time in South America with the Medellin cartel the killers who where experts at messing with my head. Threw me out of the compound and said I had to walk from Colombia where I was back to America. I took them seriously they literally killed who ever they wanted to in front of me. I set out headed towards America it was hot like you can't imagine on the equator. I walked during the night because the day was to hot. The Colombian women and children that would walk the 20 something miles back and forth along the Mt tops between cartel shelters would pass me everyday. They would leave me a water but refused to carry me anywhere. No food and just water makes you readjust your priorities. After walking what seemed like an eternity I came up on the first little gathering of people along the Mt top road it was about 15 to 20 miles away from the cartel compound. I found out that I hadn't even made it out of Colombia and it took me a couple days to get there. I was starving and thirsty. They gave me something to eat and drink then I decided to give up walking home to America. Then started back to the cartel compound with desire to do what I had to for them to take me back. When I got there they made me do things that I would call anti-religious to say the least. They laughed at me and said they thought I was dead. Most kids they send out saying they can't come back only last 30min or half a day at most. I was gone four or five days I really tried to make it work. I was so embarrassed about what they made me do to get back in that I asked you tem to open the back gate and I wanted to walk down the Mt top trail from Colombia towards Ecuador then towards Peru and Chile. They laughed and opened the back gate to let me walk away again. As I walked away I was going over how I gave up on going home and basically was separating my so called family ties of what I thought was making me want to go home. I kept thinking that my family was surely missing me as if I mattered to them. Then walking away from the compound I came across a real Shaman from Peru that had walked on a spiritual journey from Peru to the Mt top in Colombia where the equator line runs across the bottom of the country. There was a pit carved out of the Mt rock and all kinds of paintings and markings along what seemed like a big rock coming out of the Mt. There was a whole lot of terraces going down from the top of the Mt to the valley down below. Right behind the cartel compound. It was beautiful. There was a stream going down the Mt top where I came across the Shaman and his two Shamans in training that were helping him gather herbs and stuff that grows naturally that where to be used in medicines. They were cleaning fish. I wanted them to take care of me and asked if they would if I could join them. The Shaman himself could not speak English well and the Shamans in training could speak just a little, but it was enough for them to gain my trust. They had food and knew were they where that's really all it took for me all on my own. They were very nice and allowed me to be with them. The head Shaman even took me on sort of adopting me as his son or apprentice. He was going to show and train me to become a Shaman. At first I thought he was joking but he was as serious as the initiation that I went through involving durgs I didn't know exsited. DMT is what I found out it was and that night wigging out my grammar school mind I watched them put on a show in full dress going over the various sprits and religious ways of the indigenous South American people he represented. It was scary intense and dramatic. I suppose everyone experiencing it for the first time would agree. DMT is not for kids but I soon decided it was for me. What time I spent with them was about a week or so then the cartel killers once again became involved. I wrote this early that best explains the dramatic ending. Some of what I have already said is repeated. Still at this time I choose to leave out the part about the Necrophilia that they involved me in maybe I'll write about that part another time. Anyway here is the ending of my Shaman experience. 👍I was asked by a shaman to finish what the cartel killers started he was doing a ceremonial dance on a colorful huge rock of the mountain top behind Pablo Escobar's cartel housing and it had a line painted by the shaman's that came as far away as Peru to this pit carved in to the mountain with a totom pole carved of rock as well. The whole thing maped the sun and the seasons the shaman would come and use fresh made DMT and walk back and forth along the line painted as the sun's path threw the seasons by the pit used to place the dead in to be offered up to the fowls of the air that was there way. But Pablo Escobar used it as a dump to get ride of the bodies left over from the organ harvesting going on one mountain top over the cartel killers wouldn't allow the shaman to do his ceremonial dance because he would do it as long as he could using the DMT and singing a ceremonial chant that drove the killers crazy day and night. He had become my friend when he noticed me going out to the pit day after day and I convinced the killers to let him do his dance for a day but he wouldn't stop and on the second or third day he was shot while I was standing beside him in the gut he asked me to help him in the pit but he got turned upside down and I had to climb in over the dead bodies that he was tangled upside down in and finally got him right side up. He complained about he wasn't dieing fast enough he wanted me to cut his throat but I wasn't strong enough so the killers suggested I use one of the automatic high powered machine guns they had and the shaman approved I counted down and was standing way to close as the count down ended the shaman gathered his last strength and tried to stand up as I fired the shot to the head that ended his life. A West Monroe grammar school boy in Colombia South America shooting a shaman in the head to ease his passing the cartel killers started by shooting him in the gut right beside me. It was no sight for a grammar school child to see or capable of talking about with anyone when I came back to the States and attempted to settle back into normal life as just another Grammer school child. Lots of people noticed a difference but had no reasoning for what it might could be. PS Thanks for listening to my problems hope you don't have any like mine in your life. My name is 🇺🇸Dennis Homer Love Jr.🇺🇸 Left as a guest on a flight from Mena Arkansas to Colombia South America by Pablo Escobar and Stephen Shaffer of the CIA in 1980s. Don't take your freedom and liberty for granted America it costs more than can be paid.💰💰💰💰


Jeffery Meadow’s second hand Toyota pulled into the empty spot at First National bank shortly before eleven on that warm spring morning. His vehicle parked with impressive accuracy, leaving more or less perfectly equal distance between each door and adjacent white line. Jeffery shifted into park and clicked the key out of the ignition, causing the radio’s broadcast of NPR’s All Things Considered to fade into silence. Pulling down his visor, he checked his appearance in the small reflective rectangle. His balding scalp left little hair for him to adjust and his black framed spectacles didn’t need a buffing, so he flipped up the visor and popped in an Altoid mint. He immediately had two more just to be completely safe. As he stepped into the morning sun, he brushed off his khaki slacks and fixed the placement of his navy blue tie on his short sleeved white shirt. As pleased with his appearance as he could ever be (which was marginally), he started to stroll to the entrance of the small financial institution. He smiled when he noticed the blue Altima with the Hello Kitty plush in the rear window. Margaret was indeed here today. The thought empowered Jeff, it put a spring in his step, and before opening the door he heaved a deep sigh. Today was going to be the day, he thought. It was just drinks, maybe coffee. She’d say yes, he was positive. But as soon as he opened the tinted glass door and the cool bank air washed over him, his confidence began to erode. It was the sight of her blonde curls, shoulder length, bobbing up and down as she walked back to her teller desk. He stood in awe, admiring her subtle dimples and classy blue top which showed only the slightest inch of cleavage - professional albeit sexy - Jeff was flushed with adoration. Realizing he had been standing motionless for several seconds, he snapped back to reality and sheepishly shuffled his penny loafers over to the back of the four-person line. Margaret had yet to notice his presence in the bank, but he still remained patient, awaiting their encounter; his only possible obstacle was Ethel, the elderly teller set up next to Margaret who he might end up with for his simple withdrawal if luck chose not to be on his side. He’d been coming into the bank every Thursday for a year now to pull out his weekly stipend and make an effort to admire the adorable Margaret. In the span of a year, he’d only been helped by Ethel twice, allowing his rapport with the blonde teller to blossom into a friendly back and forth rather than its initial awkward and clumsily monosyllable interactions. He could have easily completed his weekly transaction at an ATM but chose to interject the five minutes of human interaction at into his Thursdays to help him escape the lonely office he inhabited as the local library’s sole accountant. In front of him in line were two middle aged women, each with at least 15 years on the young Jeffery and an impatient teenager in a hoodie who had both hands concealed in his jacket pockets. Ethel was helping a sharply dressed man who Jeffery guessed to be a used car salesman; his cheesy smile echoed such a career. Meanwhile, Margaret was counting out a large stack of hundreds to a man Jeffery assumed to be an octogenarian. He also surmised with a smile that the man probably kept a considerable sum of cash in a shoe box under his bed. Catching Margaret’s smile made Jeff’s heart sputter like his Toyota’s ignition when it occasionally failed to start. His knees quivered and his lip was immediately under pressure from his front teeth. “She hasn’t seen me yet,” he thought, “still time to leave.” As if she were clairvoyant, Margaret thumbed down the last hundred and looked up to see the nervous Jeffery for the first time. She beamed a flash of white teeth at him as he smiled and mouthed a silent, “Hi!” Jeffery gulped. It was too late. He felt trapped; his adrenaline began to pulse throughout his body. Resistance was futile, he had to see her. He mentally prayed to be helped by Ethel - his previous wishes were suddenly a thing of the past. His sweaty palms clumsily found their way into his slack’s pockets while he awaited his fate. If only he wasn’t so scared... Glancing up again to see Margaret place the stack of hundreds in an envelope, he saw the beginning of what would be the longest minute of his life. The small teenager heaved himself into the side of the old man, catching him completely off guard and causing him to hit the deck in one swift motion. The teenager removed his hands to reveal a black pistol, matte black in fact, not shiny like they sometimes were in the movies. He reached forward and grabbed the envelope with his left hand and stuffed it into his pocket, all the while the pistol remained trained squarely on Margaret whose hands were flung up in a futile effort of defense. Ethel on the other hand, remained calm for the most part, her many years behind the desk accounting for her nerves of steel. It was Ethel’s training too that stealthily tripped the silent alarm before the unruly teenager even had a chance to warn them otherwise. “Money now! All of it! You too grandma! And no funny business, one alarm goes off and you’re all dead!” He slapped a pair of reusable shopping bags on the counter with a loud, “Now!” The used car salesman shrunk to his haunches and flung his hands up, the two women in front of Jeffery hit the ground so fast he thought they might have fainted. Then, as quickly as the women fell, something inside Jeffery suddenly clicked. The adrenaline of embarrassment and lack of confidence surged into something he had never once had to summon before, raw bravery. Unsureness flashed into rage and uncertainty instantly became purpose. He was ready to strike; he was going to do whatever it took to save Margaret. This was finally his chance to be a hero. His brain didn’t have time to formulate a plan so his actions were the result of pure instinct. He lunged forward at the sound of Margaret’s scream, a loud shriek worthy of a 1950s B-movie. He knocked over the deposit and withdrawal cart in an effort to close the 15 feet between him and the youth. Unfortunately, despite the cart having wheels, it moved too slowly and gave the robber the two seconds he needed to react. The dark gun swung from Margaret and its aim became concentrated firmly on Jeffery’s chest. The pistol discharged three times into Jeffery’s moving body before the momentum of their collision knocked the teen off his feet. All three shots hit their target and it took a few seconds for Jeffery to feel the searing pain which he thought had to be temporarily masked by his surging adrenaline. During his fall the teenager dropped his gun which had slid to the feet of the clumsy salesman. He wasted no time in brandishing the weapon against its former owner. Still trying to get away, seeming not to care about the weapon trained on him, the teen stumbled to his feet and made a mad dash for the door. His short journey was interrupted when one of the middle aged ladies sprung up and clotheslined him hard, leaving him in an unconscious lump on the tiled floor. The salesman undid his tie and tossed it to the clotheslining mother who promptly began to tie up the teen’s hands while he was still out as the salesman held the weapon aiming careful for the perp’s head. Jeffery was still on the floor, lost in a daze. The old man had returned to his feet, relatively unharmed and Margaret and Ethel rushed to Jeffery’s aid. “Jeff! Oh my God! Are you okay? Jeff, he shot you! Oh Jeff!” Still not feeling the pain of what he thought three bullets to the chest would inflict on him, Jeff was extremely thankful for his thyroid’s ability to produce pain numbing chemicals in times of need. Just as he gingerly touched a wound and brought his only slightly bloody fingers to his eye level, Margaret fell down next to him, cradling his head in her lap. “Jeff, oh God, someone call 911! He’s been shot! Are you okay? Jeff, are you okay!?” “Coffee.” “Jeff... What? You want...coffee?” “Have coffee with me? Friday?” At this point Jeff wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline, shock, or Margaret’s presence, but he never felt the full force of the bullets. “Jeff, we need to call an ambulance!” “Coffee? Yes? No? Maybe?” “Jeff, yes, I’ll get coffee with you, but you’re bleeding!" It was true, three crimson blossoms erupted in bloom on his white shirt, each less than an inch in diameter, nothing at all Jeff noted, like in the movies. Stirring from her answer, a rush of positive emotions rode through his body propelling him to his feet. He looked down at Margaret and offered his hand. “Jeff, I don’t understand, you were shot...” He walked over to the salesman and asked to see the gun; amazed that Jeff was on his feet he immediately handed over the weapon and stepped back in amazement. “Jeff, how... What’s going on? I...don’t understand,” implored Margaret. Jeffery walked over to the counter and pointed the gun muzzle down onto the teller counter and pulled the trigger. The report was surprisingly quiet. No one had noticed how silent the gun was in light of all the confusion. The light foosh rang throughout the bank but startled no one, Jeff was in charge. No one dared question the man who walked after being shot thrice. After he shot the quiet weapon, he put down the gun and picked up a small brass sphere, only a few millimeters in diameter. “BBs,” Jeff said with a smile. With that solemn declaration, Margaret beamed a smile through her tears and embraced Jeff wholly, surprising him at first, his hands at his sides, until he finally returned the embrace and felt the soft curves of his secret love pressed against his body. “Coffee...” Jeff said incredulously. “Yes, coffee, I’d love to get some coffee... I thought you’d never ask!” Jeff, lost in contemplation, held onto the embrace, slowly identifying with his new persona, the new Jeff Meadows who now had a date with Margaret. “Starbucks or Seattle’s Best?” he inquired. She answered with a kiss. Starbucks it was.