On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, I stretched my massive frame across an expensive and recently paid off leather couch, desperately seeking some diversion. Something to help cross the canyon of time standing between Tuesday and Wednesday. Believing hope rested on the tip of my remote, I searched the thousands of movies available to me across a bevy of devices and found “The Lorax.” Throughout the film, I noticed details that seemed to reference deeper meanings. If nothing else, I am a wannabe detective, so I took my pursuit of the truth to the hallowed halls of Google, where strangely enough, nothing could be found on Seuss esotericism. That was the end of my story. Three weeks later, while standing in line waiting to return a pair of Zubaz pants, an older gentleman overheard me on the phone discussing my Seuss frustration with an old high school girlfriend. He waited until I completed both my conversation and the transaction and approached me cautiously, like an alligator wrangler approaching a backyard in Florida. With a tap of the finger, he started a conversation that changed my life forever. First, the old-timer acknowledged the awkwardness of discussing a conversation in which he was not an active participant. After I disarmed him with a smile and a wave of my right hand, he proceeded to inform me about a library found on Staten Island, NY called “The Great Kills Library.” I would discover Seussian truth somewhere inside the bowels of that two-hundred-year-old building. Joy filled my heart, and I felt the need to thank the man to which he insisted none was needed. At last, he permitted me to kiss his gnarled left hand, and I was on my way to the hallowed halls of the Great Kills Library. Unfortunately, they were closed. I rented a room at the Victory Motor Inn and showed up again the next morning, wearing the same clothes. After hours of perusing various microfilms and filthy relics, I came upon an article written in the early parts of the twentieth century by James Cortelyou. The headline screamed, “THE LORAX AND THE FRENCH REVOLUTION,” and as I scanned down, all I saw was one big brown stain. Of course, the rest of the article was illegible, due to a careless patron spilling coffee over the document like a large man entering a bath. Blast! Ninety-five percent of the time, that’s the end of the story. Ninety-nine percent of the time, whatever truth there is left to find is consigned to the garbage bin of history. Thankfully, I am part of the one percent. A sentence, which, when taken out of context, might condemn me to the fate suffered by those later on in this story. With a recipe that is two-thirds ingenuity, a quarter high-speed Internet connection, and three-eighths free long distance phone call thanks to Verizon, I managed to track down James Cortelyou at his house deep in the brass fields of Tecumseh, Oklahoma. At first, he was hesitant to speak, most likely due to the intimidating Seuss agents residing all across the continental United States. Eventually, due to his need to unburden his heavy soul before passing on to the great beyond, he opened up and told me the true story behind, “The Lorax.” Our tale begins in the year 1793, in the quaint French countryside of Fougères, located on the outskirts of le Mont St-Michel. Fougères is famous for having one of the only three belfries in Brittany, a former feudal state that existed for a time in France. For years, peace ruled the land until the winds of change began hinting of ominous actions to come. With the monarchy facing opposition from all sides and the people thirsting for freedom, it was the perfect storm for creativity, fresh ideas, and impending doom. Enter Pierre de la Crème Glacée Parapluie, or simply Pete Parapluie to his friends. Pete was a simple glassmaker, one of the dozens located in a town famous for its glass-making industry. His life was a series of routines, and Pete anticipated his life would stay that way until he finally closed his eyes. One of those routines involved his hands, specifically his fingers. Every day he would come home with slight scratches all over his delicate digits from the exquisite element of the glass. If that was his only hassle, historians agree that Pete would have settled into a lifetime of obscurity. It wasn’t. He didn’t. The problem began as all problems did back then, with the upper crust of French society. They enjoyed the finer things in life, and there was nothing finer than the glass in Pete’s shop. They would come in their fancy clothes and powdered faces, shooting off their sneering glances and condescending attitudes. Pete did his best to smile; after all, it was nearly impossible to find a French aristocrat at that time who didn’t sneer and condescend with a powdered face and fancy clothes. If that was the only problem, historians are also in agreement that Pete’s name might have survived a generation after his death, but no more than two. It wasn’t. And once again, he didn’t. The crux, the essence, the Coeur of the matter was how the aristocrats traveled with their cats. Not just one cat, many cats. Multiple cats. Lots of cats. Une multitude de chats. Pete hated cats. These cats would come and use his shop as their own personal litter box. What was formerly a clean workplace turned into a disgusting toilet. Long after the aristocrats and their cats had bid him adieu, Pete would find nastiness in his shoes, in his glass machinery, even in his ears. This drove Pete, crazy. Did you ever find shit in your ears? Not dirt, but actual shit. It is not a pleasant feeling. Enough was enough. On the morning of January 20, 1793, he marched down to The Church of Saint Sulpice and demanded the attention of the townspeople. Quickly, a mob gathered, (as was the norm at the time) to listen to Pete’s words. There he gave a speech widely regarded as the most important in French history and the reason why King Louis XVI was executed the very next day. Before we get to those words, let me extend my apologies to those who speak French. Some of the meaning gets lost in translation. *My fellow countrymen!* *I am tired! I am tired of making glass for these horrible rich people who think they are better than we are. I am tired of seeing their smug faces and having to hold my tongue as they talk down to me. But most of all, I am tired of their cats!* *To hell with their cats!* *To hell with those useless animals that believe by virtue of their birth that they own dominion over all that they see. To hell with their belief that they can go to the bathroom wherever they want. I am tired of their shit, both literal and metaphorical. WE are tired of their shit. I know there isn’t a man alive here in our proud town that enjoys finding cat shit in their ears. I know there isn’t a woman alive in this town who enjoys having to ruin their brooms sweeping up all the cat shit. I say it’s time we give them back all the shit they have given us!* *It is time to rise up!* *It is time to cast off these bonds of servitude and force the rich to acknowledge who truly runs this beautiful land we call France!* *It is time to fuck shit up!* After that last line, the crowd went into a frenzy and began to chant, *A l’enfer avec les Royals et a l’enfer avecs leurs chats!* Translated into English, *To hell with the Royals and to hell with their cats!* This sentiment raged across the countryside as hordes of angry French citizens attacked those they believed persecuted them. They wanted freedom, they wanted equality, and they wanted to be rid of those annoying cats. Thus, the end result of an attack on French nobility was their cats placed into a sack and thrown into a river. In casting off their symbolic shackles, they cast off the cats. The most impressionable of all were the French children, who watched this all go down. Psychologists later concluded that to deal with the horrors, the French children created a game that later became the impetus of the game “Freeze Tag,” complete with a song. The game would begin with all the children gathered together. Quickly, two children would be singled out. One would be “The Royalty,” and one would be “The Cat.” The rest of the children would denigrate into a mob and chase “The Royalty” and “The Cat.” When they finally caught “The Royalty,” the child was forced to stand still and watch as the children then focused their attention on finding “The Cat.” Once “The Cat” was found, the children would carry “The Cat” and throw them into “The River,” symbolized by the mounds of garbage piling up around the countryside. Once “The Cat” was thrown into “The River” the children would sing, *Nous sommes les enfants assez & petit* *Nous jeter le cat dans la rivière* *La Révolution vivent plus longtemps que le cat* *C’est dans la rivière jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Le cat dans la rivière jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Et a l’enfer avec lui* **Translated into English**, *We are children pretty and small* *We throw the cat in the river* *The Revolution shall live longer than the cat* *That’s in the river* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *In the river* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *And to hell with him!* It was at this point in the conversation where I firmly believed James Cortelyou was wearing a spaghetti strainer for a hat. He heard the silence echoing from thousands of miles away and asked, with a hint of glee in his voice, “Perhaps you’re wondering how this ties into The Lorax?” In the late 1960s, Theodor Seuss Geisel was traveling the French countryside with his second wife, Audrey Stone Dimond, when they decided to check out the famous castle in Fougères, built in the year 1000. In the middle of their journey to the castle, they came across the infamous Church of Saint Sulpice. Believing if you’ve seen one church, you’ve seen them all Theodor was content to continue their trek. Audrey, however, begged her husband to stop when she saw a bunch of stuffed cat dolls piled up along the sides of the columns making up the front of the church. “Such a curious sight,” she was said to exclaim. “Let’s go investigate.” The weary travelers approached the front door and tried to understand the significance behind the cats. Seeing how Theodor couldn’t read or speak French, he asked a fellow traveler to translate the words on the plaque found to the right of said door. Those words were the famous speech Pete made nearly two hundred years prior. Now intrigued, Seuss grew obsessed with learning the rest of the story. By the time he arrived home in California, Seuss knew he had to Americanize the story and make it suitable for children. Thus, “The Lorax.” There was a forty-second pause between us before I thanked James for his time and hung up the phone. Two weeks later, he was found dead in his home. Cause of death? Choked on a cherry. What’s the most popular fruit tree in France? The Cherry tree. I’ll leave you to fill in the blanks. So the next time you read, “The Lorax” to your children or watch the movie on Netflix, remember the symbolic meaning behind the Lorax creature, representing the French peasants and the “Once-Ler” representing the French Royalty. Think of those simple French people. Think of all those simple French people who had to suffer from finding cat shit in their ears. Think of how cat shit led to the French Revolution, forever changing the way people lived and were governed. Think of how, without the cat shit, there would be no French Revolution and consequently, no United States of America.


Most of my installations have been polarizing to say the least, spurring critique that says I trivialize trauma while on the other hand garnering praise for pointing at the dark heart of America: “A Candle in the Wind” was an eternal flame placed underneath a flame-retardant portrait of Marilyn Monroe; “Notes from the Underground” were pages of writings from escaped slaves that light up to the tune of the Hollywood Undead album of the same name; and “Fast Five” were obituaries of car crash victims written using rubber from burst tires. I’ll let you make your own assumptions about each piece’s meaning. Despite the expected ramblings of negativity that usually appear after one of my showings, nothing could have prepared me for the universal praise I received after my latest work “The Manhattan Project.” Nothing in the world draws in a crowd like art. And nothing in the art world draws in a crowd like interactive art. People can sit and ogle a Rembrandt painting all day; people can stare at the thick brush strokes of a Rothko until they make their own meaning in the nothingness; people can walk around a Jeff Koons dog and add their voice to the thousands who have accused him of plagiarism. But to actually touch a piece of art? Now there’s an event. There’s another photo opportunity. In their very nature, people enjoy interacting with things. It makes them feel as if they are part of something they have no right to be a part of. “Step right up! Now you too can leave your handprints on the testicles of the Wall Street bull!” In actuality, no one would ever want to touch the testicles of a real bull, but to take photos with your head mere inches from the anus of a landmark while clutching the hardest sack you’ve ever felt? Well, not to be crass, but even children find that amusing. Friends, families, scholars, all walks of life can easily have a quick chuckle when posing with a brass member, and for some reason, there is barely any pompous criticism like you would hear in a museum. None of those freshmen artists who think they know more than everyone around them. None of those stuffy professors with their circular glasses giving their twenty minute speech about how they used to know the photographer. None of the jaded attendees (who at one time were those freshmen artists who just could’t break into the industry due to “unfairness”) saying “that’s art? My kid could do that.” Just a moment of... being. I do feel lucky to have progressed from one of those optimistic students. And yes, I am jaded, but I’m one of the jaded ones who’ve made it. The curators in the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in Manhattan (trust me there is more to my installation’s title than just relating to the location) expected me to bring in a crowd based on my name alone, but these days, name recognition isn’t enough. Too much time could be spent playing a video game, watching a movie, scrolling through blog posts of your favorite author; but to actually get people to leave the comfort of their chairs is a harder task than ever. The time for planning was running out. When panicking about your future, you’ll do just about anything. When picking two out of the “cheap, fast, and good triangle”, quality is always the first to go. When pleading to a higher being for some inspiration, sometimes the devil answers. So in the age of Instagram and TikTok influencers, I decided to sell my soul. I made something interactive. The description in the gallery pamphlet is as follows: “Remy Lazarus’ “The Manhattan Project” is a new, interactive, singular experience from the divisive artist. You are now at the Trinity Site of New Mexico. Step into the year 1945 as you press the button that launched the first nuclear missile and changed the world forever. To mark this occasion, stand still for one minute as the camera exposes your complimentary photo while a mushroom cloud grows behind you.” In the opening day, hundreds came through to get their hands on the button that would put generations to come on edge. Children, adults, elders who were alive during that moment, all seemed to have a strange sort of glee on their face as they brought about destruction to the Jornada del Muerto desert. Behind each one of them, a projector played footage of a warhead explosion, yet they never face it, instead opting to look ahead at the camera capturing their image. Out of sight, out of mind, one might say. And when they were done, they collected the image of their time traveling as if it were any other photo booth attraction. So many hands on that button. So many minutes passing. Standing just at the entrance for the reception, I noticed a few going in again for a second, even a third time. Phones out, taking their own pictures, making videos of themselves in black and white. The joy of ultimate power in their hands was tangible, and yet the irony of it all was lost on each one of them. Days went by, weeks went by, hundreds visited, and it was soon the most frequented exhibit in the MoMA. When picking the options of cheap and fast, certain corners must be cut, but sometimes rash decisions what stand the test of time. The unexpected can be the most impactful. Think of your favorite movie lines: “Hey I’m walkin’ here” from Midnight Cowboy, or “Heeere’s Johnny” from the Shining, or “You’re gonna need a bigger boat” from Jaws, or “But why male models” from Zoolander, or “Like tears in rain” from Blade Runner, or “You talkin’ to me” from Taxi Driver, or “You hit me in the ear! Why the ear?” from Fight Club. All were unscripted, improvised moments. The unexpected can be the most impactful. So when people of New York started slowly experiencing strange feelings of nausea and vomiting, not much note was taken. But the dizziness, fatigue, and hair loss caught much more attention. No one could understand how it was happening. Something in the water? Something in the air? A chemical attack? Some accounts were shared of those in other states experiencing similar symptoms, even progressing to internal bleeding. A wave of panic swept across the city, eventually the nation, as more and more cases were discovered. What could be causing this? Where were these unidentifiable boils coming from? Children died. Adults died. Elders who lived through the first test of the nuclear bomb died. All of them having a photo of perfect happiness while playing with an art installation. When picking the options of cheap and fast, certain corners must be cut. All the pieces of my “Manhattan Project” were in place, save for the countertop that the button of doom would sit on. Materials are expensive and after blowing my wad on loads of paper, a projector, automated film camera, and a printer, a simple stand that was sturdy enough to maintain the pressure of thousands of visitors was all I needed. After too many calls and websites to count, I happened upon a story of radioactive countertops that caused more than a few problems in Europe. Unsurprisingly, the first I heard of this came from an article written by similarly divisive artist, Chuck Palahniuk. The connection was too perfect. An unsuspecting radioactive material in an art piece about the unrecognized cost of nuclear destruction that would simultaneously destroy the audience without them realizing? It was too good to be true. And yet, the truth was there. Is HERE. Amongst the rest of my materials in storage after the closing of a three-month show. The number of attendees declined, but the number of those alive in the city also declined, so the ratio was maintained. No one would ever point to my piece as being the cause of so much death, and there should be no reason for a Geiger counter to ever come across the radioactive countertop. Finally, the reviews associated with my name were overwhelmingly positive, and the fallout was overwhelmingly negative. Yet, everyone was at least happy for a moment. So please, touch the art.


“Kristof, are you sure this is what you want? My father is not going to like this.” “I’ve thought about it Marie. The pandemic is hurting everyone. Plus, you know how my headaches have come back. They haven’t been this bad in over 20 years. They’re so random and unpredictable, I just don’t know if I can do it.” “Well you’re going to have to talk to him then because I’m sure as hell not. This is your decision and I’m not about to break my own father’s heart.” Kristof and Marie had been dating for several years. Marie’s father owned and ran a small carpentry and woodworking business, The Wood Chest. It provided an adequate living, keeping the Peters family entrenched in the middle class social scene for almost a century. Once it became apparent that Kristof and Marie were committed to each other, Stephen Peters, Marie’s father, brought on Kristof as his protege with the goal of one day handing the reigns of The Wood Chest to him. “When are you going to talk to him?” Marie asked. “I know you’re both working on that project today.” “I still haven’t fully decided that I’m going to do it. You know I have that week booked soon at that AirBnB cabin” Kristof replied. “Thank you for letting me have that time alone by the way.” “Of course. I do know you’ve been under a lot of stress, you need a reboot.” “Oh you’re right about that. But yeah, I’m still not 100% sure I want to tell him anyway. It’s a big decision and there’s just so much at play.” Kristof stood and cleared the table. “Well,” Marie said as she scrubbed away the morning’s breakfast residue from the pan, “make sure this isn’t a rash decision. Spend some time with dad, go grab a beer with him and just talk. I’m sure things will become more clear if you don’t keep things bottled up to yourself.” “Yeah. I’ll see how it the project comes along this morning and go from there. Marie?” “Yes?” “Thank you. I love you.” “I love you too K. Now hurry up and shower. You need to leave in 20 minutes.” “Yes mother” Kristof said playfully, rolling his eyes. Marie shot him a playful angry look and threw the dish towel at him. Kristof caught it and threw it back immediately, taking off running to the bathroom before she could have a chance to throw it back. ********** The working portion of The Wood Chest was a 1200 square foot space in the back of the Peters’ family land. It was originally a guest house when Marie’s great-grandfather built the main house and started the company roughly one hundred years ago. When Stephen, Marie’s father, took over the daily operations of the business, he converted the guest house into the main workshop. This was where the big projects were made. Stephen Peters was sanding and turning a piece of cedar at one of the lathes in a corner of the shop when Kristof walked in. Stephen was only 60 years old, but the years of running The Wood Chest had begun to cause some arthritis in his shoulders and he appeared to be closer to 70 than his actual age. His hardened skin seemed moreso due to his nearly solid white hair. While still able to get his customers taken care of and his jobs done in a reasonable amount of time, he was more than happy to have the help of Kristof. The days the two spent working on projects and building custom pieces for customers and clients seemed to go by much faster than when one of them was working solo. It also didn’t hurt that it was looking more and more like Kristof was going to propose to Stephen’s daughter Marie in the next few weeks. Stephen enjoyed Kristof’s company immensely and was excited about the possibilities for The Wood Chest when he finally handed control of the business to his (hopeful) future son-in-law. “Morning Mr. Peters, how many projects are on the slate for today?” “Hey there Kristof! This is it for the day, but it’s going to take a majority of our time.” “Just the one huh?” Kristof sighed. “How long has it been since we had multiple jobs going at once? I miss the days when we had to budget our time enough to be able to work on a few different pieces each day.” Stephen turned off his machine and stretched. “I know son, it’s been awhile. Once the pandemic hit, it slowed us down quite a bit. We’re still getting orders and making money, but yes there has been a drop off the past few months.” Kristof slid on his apron and safety goggles. “Didn’t you say that we should be getting more custom orders any day now?” “I did say that, yes.” Stephen replied. “We actually just got three orders for some really amazing patio pieces. I know I promised you your week vacation next week, so I convinced the client to let us start those in a couple weeks after you get back.” “Thank you sir” Kristof said with some excitement. “First, for letting me take the time off like that, my headaches are back and I honestly need the break.” “That’s no problem, I need you healthy. My goal is to get all of this” Stephen gestured to the shop with a wide arch of his arm “transferred to you by the end of the quarter. I haven’t told Marie this, but I’m retiring soon. My shoulders aren’t getting better. This is all about to be yours.” “That’s quite a lot to take in Mr. Peters. Why haven’t you told her?” Stephen went back to work on the lathe while Kristof worked on sanding some of the larger pieces. He had to shout so he could be heard clearly. “Because you know how she worries, Kristof. She’s concerned enough as it is. Can you imagine how she would take it if she knew that I was planning to retire earlier than anyone knows? For this to go smoothly, this is how it has to be done.” Kristof stifled a laugh. “Yeah, she does tend to get worked up and over think a bit. Mr. Peters?” “Yes?” “Let’s go grab a couple of drinks after work today. I’ve got a couple things I’d like to talk to you about.” Stephen’s face lit up. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Let’s get this work knocked out so we can enjoy ourselves later.” They both turned from the other and got back to working on their respective parts of the project. ********** The first snow of the season had started falling in the afternoon and the bar was not very crowded. A young couple sat at the bar and a group of three off duty construction workers were standing over a pool table deciding would would break the first game. Stephen and Kristof sat facing one another in a corner booth. Stephen had just started his rum and coke and Kristof was taking a sip of his beer when the waitress brought their food. Stephen got the fries and Kristof the nachos (Kristof loved him some nachos). “Great job today on the sanding Kristof” as Stephen took a bite of fries. “Thank you. I think I only managed a couple of splinters, not so bad” Kristof said with a grin. Stephen smiled. “You’ll live. I’m glad you picked this place. I like it, not smoky or anything.” “I know it’s not your regular spot, but it’s a great low key place with amazing food.” Kristof scooped more ground beef onto a nacho. “These things are glorious.” “You said you wanted to talk about a couple things. Is everything okay?” Stephen finished his drink and signaled the bartender for another. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I’m worried.” “About what son?” Stephen asked. “I don’t know how to say this, but I’m worried about the shop, about The Wood Chest.” A look of confusion came over Stephen’s face. “Oh? Go on.” Kristof took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I know it’s been in the family since before your father was born. I know the history it has in this town, the history it has for that property and for the Peters’. But we’ve got to be realistic and look at the big picture. Business has dropped upwards of 50 percent the past 7 to 8 months, and it’s getting close to 60.” “Uh huh. I’m aware.” Stephen said softly with a hardened stare. “What’s your point? I told you things are starting to pick up. The Wood Chest has made it through tough times before and I don’t see how this is any different.” “Stephen. Mr. Peters. Look at it. There is a worldwide pandemic going on and businesses like this, shops like this one, they’re all struggling. And with no end in sight? How much longer can we keep it up?” They silently looked at each other as the waitress brought them each another drink before leaving to attend to a table of men that just entered. The men at the pool table were starting their second game. “Kristof, I want you to listen, and I want you to listen good. The Wood Chest has survived countless ups and downs, the mini depression in the 80s, the crash of 08, 9/11, all of it. And guess what? We’ve come out stronger in the end. I know we can do it again, and that’s why I want you. You know that I’m turning it over to you over the next couple of months. We can do this.” Kristof took another deep breath and downed half his bottle in one chug. “That’s the thing. I don’t want it.” Stephen slammed his glass down and everyone in the bar quickly glanced his direction before turning away. “What do you mean you don’t want it?” Kristof looked Stephen in the eyes. “I mean I don’t want to take over The Wood Chest. I don’t want The Wood Chest. If you turn it over to me, I’ll of course take it, but I won’t continue to keep it in the family.” All the color drained from Stephen Peters’ face. “I, I, don’t know what I’m hearing. I can’t believe this. We were going to turn it around together and you were going to usher in a new era for The Wood Chest.” “We still can turn it around Mr. Peters, but I will look to sell the business within a year if you give me full control.” Kristof said matter of factly. “I’m not going to continue the family business long term.” “This hurts, you know this.” Stephen said, barely above a whisper. “What can I do to change your mind?” “Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do. I’ve made up my mind. I will gladly stay on and continue working with you. We can continue turning things around. I’m not leaving you high and dry. I will help you with the search for the next head of your family business, but that person is not going to be me.” Kristof finished his beer and grabbed another beef laden nacho. “I definitely wasn’t expecting this, but if your mind is made up, I’m not going to try and force you.” Stephen said as he picked at the remainer of his fries, clearly distracted. “I appreciate you letting me get that out, and I’m sorry.” Kristof’s cell phone began to buzz in his pocket. He signalled for one final round of drinks before looking at his phone. “It’s Marie. She wants to talk.” **********


Oh my. That’s not right. It’s nice to see but its $100,000 more than I should have . I was standing in front of the ATM machine having just withdrawn some cash and was staring at the receipt.. I immediately thought I should go into the bank and question it when another thought came. Hold on now. It might be ok. Wait until I am home and check the computer. Might be another windfall I hadn’t expected . Remembering back 10 years ago when I had found I was entitled to a pension from my husband’s work. Came completely out of the blue, but very welcome. On my way home, I took the 20 minute walk to think about the funds. If this was legit, how would I spend it?. A trip and one where I would invite my close friend to join me, all expenses paid. We both had expressed a desire to visit Newfoundland and Labrador. Embrace the wonderful scenery, the fiords and thoroughly explore all the Viking history. As neither of us wanted to drive, the best way was an escorted tour. I had researched this before and knew there was a 14 day one available. A small group of about 10 people in an luxury coach, staying at the best hotels along the way and doing various side trips like whale watching, iceberg alley and enjoying an evening with the locals with all their music and dancing. That trip would account for around $20,000 and I could book it now and pay for it upfront and also take out insurance cancellation just to be on the safe side. Lovely, I thought. But hold on a bit. What if this windfall was an error. If I spent it and then they wanted it back. The insurance cancellation was good but only for so many days before the trip. I would then be in debt. Or could they? All very well expecting to get the funds back, but if it’s all gone, you can’t get blood out of a stone. So maybe I should spend it as fast as I could. Good point, so how else will I dispose of $100,000 fast? What about investment? Nice idea, but that takes time to get a good return. Maybe buy a car. Normally a new car is not a good investment as the minute it is driven off the parking lot, it depreciates fast. I had quite the opposite experience six months ago. . My car was coming off a 5 year lease and I did the buy back. Six months later I moved into a condo in town and having a car was such an expense. Especially parking. Then there was gas which had risen so much recently, plus insurance, maintenance and such like and public transport around me was so readily available. I had seen there was a demand for second hand cars and was amazed when I was offered $15,000.. Doing the maths I had actually paid $21,000 in total with lease payments and buy out, so in 5 years, it had only cost me $6,000 plus running costs. . Not bad I thought. So could I do that again? Although I had managed without my car, I had to admit I really missed it. The little trips done on a whim, popping down to see my friend who lived 2 hours away. Or exploring other areas around the town which were not always accessible by public transport or if they were, it took such a long time. So that would account for another $35,000 .if I bought a new car and outright. That wasn’t such a bad idea because if the funds were in error and had to pay back, I could always take out a new lease and pay back the funds and hopefully do the same as before. So now I have disposed of $55,000. Had to do something else with the $45,000. By this time I had arrived home and went immediately to the computer to research the funds, who they were from and if I was entitled. Not that easy without alerting the bank which I didn’t want to do at this stage. As today was a Friday, no more transactions would go through on my account until the following Monday. So I had the whole weekend to decide my next step. Another thought popped up. Is the Bank allowed to withdraw funds from my account without my permission? I had put an alert on a daily withdrawal of $2,000 to stop any nasty people helping themselves. The Bank certainly could deposit funds as I was the recipient and they wouldn’t be concerned where it came from. If this was in error, they would only know if the sender put in a search and that would only be the result of the true recipient not receiving the funds. So how much time would all this take? Could be days, even weeks. Certainly enough time for me to dispose of the $45,000. What else could I do or what else did I need? Ah, charity. It’s all very well having funds, legit or not, but there are other people not so fortunate. Animals too. One of my favourite charities was for guide dogs. Not just for the blind and deaf, but also for therapeutic dogs in hospitals. Donating to this not only finds a good home for a dog, but also gave a new lease on life for people with disabilities. This is excellent. I doubt anyone would be that mean to want a return if I had donated with funds not my own. I would appeal to their good side and hopefully shame them into assuring the donation would stay. All good. That accounts for at least $3,000. Now to select maybe 4 more charities and give the same amount. Doing well. Now down to $30,000. What do I really need. Until now, I hadn’t thought how hard it was to spend money. I had seen so many ads with the latest lottery up to the millions and I’m sure like a lot of people thought how wonderful it would be to have. Now here I was not sure how to spend just $100,000. Of course I was also considering the possibility of having to pay it back if it wasn’t really mine. That did put a restriction of freedom of spending. So far I had come up with ideas which also enabled me to repay the funds if necessary without putting a damper on myself. What about my kids and grandkids?. They were all in a good position. Not that a bit of extra cash wouldn’t go amiss. I had already put funds aside for the grandkids in a trust fund they would have on my demise. Also had transferred funds to my kids to cover my cremation and the trip to the UK to scatter my ashes. Everything was in order. Just what do I personally need? My apartment was well furnished and my building offered a lot of amenities. Going on trips is wonderful and I would really enjoy the Newfoundland one, but traveling and negotiating international airports is not something I really wanted to do anymore. Been there, done that. Now it was time to make sure I was well cared for and enjoy my senior life. With that in mind, I turned my thoughts to the remaining $30,000. How could I park the funds so they could be spent and couldn’t be grabbed back. Would be good to have $30,000 to access as the spirit moved. To go on day trips, enjoy shows in New York, visit friends on the west coast and generally have the freedom to enjoy what was available. I really needed to put it somewhere safe. Then I decided on a plan which could take a bit of time. I would take out cash every few days. Not the same amount. Didn’t want to show a pattern. I would keep the cash in a safe place in my apartment and would use the cash to pay for groceries, clothing, auto expenses such as gas, service, maintenance, concert tickets, and other personal requirements. By doing that, my bank balance would increase and those funds would be legitimately mine. So not to attract attention, I would put some expenses through the bank. Taking the funds out would take quite some time and over several weeks. I was banking on the true sender and recipient not discovering their error for some time. Something that I had experienced once before when I was working for an architect many years ago. I had been engaged as the bookkeeper for a medium sized Architect’s office. A good solid firm and it was a delight to work with such creative people. Normally I only did a 3 day week which was sufficient to keep the books in up to date order. The specific week when an error appeared on the bank balance was when I had been asked to draw up a budget for a new project which required an extra day’s work. I had just finished the project and still had a bit of time to spare so decided to just do a cursory glance at the bank balance instead of waiting until the following week. Immediately I could see there was an extra $50,000 deposit and from a company we did not have dealings. I knew there was an error and could easily see why. The name of the Architect I worked for was Richardson Design. There was another Architect cum Artists Gallery in town called Richards Art and Design. This was a much bigger firm than ours and had quite a staff. This was to whom the cheque had been issued so clearly just a slip up. $50,000 slip up and not to be taken lightly. I didn’t have the authority to question this or to contact anyone until it was confirmed that this was in fact an error. Everyone had left for the weekend, so I put a note with a photocopy of the transaction on Mr. Richards’ desk. When I arrived at work the following Monday, I was immediately summoned to Mr. Richards’ office. It was of course to discuss the $50,000. The head accountant was also there and he did confirm that they were not expecting any funds from this particular sender. After going through the bank balance and showing him how I had retrieved the information as to the sender and recipient, it was agreed it was just a bank slip up. That’s when I caught a bit of a gleam in Mr. Richards’ eye. When he asked if I had contacted anyone and I assured him I had not, the gleam became a beam. “Let’s wait a bit and see how long it takes them to find out they’re missing funds.” Both he and the accountant chuckled. I knew there was a bit of a jealousy between the two firms and we were regarded as the poor relations. Normally I would not have questioned either of them, but I thought they hadn’t really thought this through, “What happens Mr. Richards if they discover it before we tell them.? We might look as though we are slow off the mark don’t you think?” Definitely a good point and at that they both agreed that although action should be taken straight away, they decided to give them 24 hours. They wouldn’t be caught out for any delay as they could plead that I was only part time. Apparently, Mr. Richards was the one to call 24 hours later and politely ask the other Mr. Richards if he was missing a bit of cash, like around $50,000. By all accounts, there was more than a bit of a flurry around and questions why this had not been noticed immediately. Especially as they were expecting the funds the week before. The bank were hauled over the coals as well as it was their error in posting. We came out like true heroes and I was sent a bouquet of flowers from the competition with a simple note “Thank you for your diligence. Good people hard to find” Was that a way of offering me a job? Maybe but I didn’t bite. Taking out $30,000 in cash would take a lot of time and I realized I would be in a lot of stress until it was all accounted for. Plus all the time expecting to hear that the gig was up. Did I really need any stress at my time of life? Definitely not, but what other way was there to deal with $30,000. I cast my thoughts back to tv shows I had seen about money laundering. I’d never truly followed the total scheme and anyways that the film industry. They don’t necessarily have to be that accurate. Deciding it was best to leave things as they were and not spend any money or dispose of any funds for a few days. See what happens on Monday.. As soon as the bank was open, I checked my bank balance. Still the same. Checked my messages and nothing from the Bank or from anyone I didn’t recognize. Several coffees later, I had come to a decision. I just wasn’t prepared to go through all the plans I had thought of to park or spend funds not truly mine. Guess I don’t have a criminal mind after all. Without trying to dissuade myself, I picked up the phone and called the Bank. Oh my God. No wonder people question people in authority. After all the details had been taken down, repeated and fully explained a couple of times, checking with superiors, and being put on hold innumerous times, I was finally told they would place a hold on the funds pending investigation. They either didn’t know or would not tell me who the funds were from. It was nearly 4 weeks later that I heard back to say the funds had indeed been placed in my account in error. No other details were given despite the numerous questions I had. In a way I was relieved although I did have fun thinking about how to spend the money. It also showed me my priorities which did surprise me. The next surprise I had was a letter with a $10,000 cheque. It was from the sender. Had someone other than myself received the funds and disposed of them straight away like I had imagined I could do, not necessary the same way, those would have been lost and both the sender and the bank would have been responsible for issuing duplicate funds. In recognition of my honesty, they were issuing me a 10% finders fee. Now there’s a thought. Why not offer my services in tracking down missing funds


Grandma used to tell me there was a song in everything. She would say the wind was the melody, the trees the percussion, and the critters that filled the land were the vocals. She used to hum along with the sounds of the microwave and washer. She’d harmonize with the racket of traffic. She’d even dance to the scrubbing of the dishes. She was an amazing woman who heard the beauty in everything. I loved her dearly, but sometimes wonder if the loss of her sight also led to the loss of her mind as well. Grandpa once said she was always like this. She was a whimsical young lady, which turned her into a magical old crone, spending every moment see could following the sounds. I might not hear the music she could, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t catch myself whistling along with the birds sometimes on my walks home. Her favorite song of all, was the sounds of a summer night. I would often find her in the back garden late in the evening. Surrounded by fireflies and flowers, resembling a fairy queen on her throne. There she would let the sounds carry her away to some place the rest of us could never seem to find. And in those moments, she would open her mouth and let loose the most beautiful sounds a human could make. Her tone was both earthy and light, and with the addition of the toads, crickets and owls, the song would almost become ethereal. And for a small moment, anyone there to bare witness would be swept away with her. This is where I found myself often, whenever I felt alone, or stressed or sad, grandma’s song was there to ground me. So, on the night she passed, I found myself there again. I settled myself in her normal spot, closed my eyes and listened. But all I found was silence, as if the world was mourning her loss with me. All that was there to accompany me was the tears on my face and the stars in the sky. Each one seemed to shine a little less bright this evening. In the years to follow I would find myself there often, and all though the melodies of the night air returned, I could never find that song again. The world continued as if nothing had changed. That house stayed with the family, as was tradition, and soon became home to a family of my own. And one summer night, while I thought everyone was asleep, I heard that song again. Every so faintly, it floated into the house through an open window. My feet brought me out to the garden, my whole mind feeling entranced. And in that garden, my little one sat. Voice as sweet as honey, the universe sang back to her. My grandma used to tell me there was a song in everything, and for the first time, in what seemed a lifetime, I heard my grandma again.


I thought old people we're meant to be sweet and kind. My grandparents were sweet and kind so I just figured all old people were nice. When I started work in the care-home I thought it was going to be an easy job. I thought the old women would just be fussing over me trying to pinch my cheeks. And I thought the old men would be telling me their wartime stories and how lucky we whippersnappers had it. That didn't seem to be the case though. In the first week. I was spat on, punched, I had stuff tossed at me. One old bastard hit me on the forehead with a heavy ornament and I had to get stitches. They were relentless, mean old bullies, that got off on causing pain and suffering. Not all seemed bad. There seemed to be a gang of them, who sat around plotting on how to make people's lives miserable. Mr Jones was the leader of the gang. I would've loved to know where they got all their energy from. Mr Jones was 105 and he had the energy of a child and he was strong. I tried to get him to go to bed one night and he caught me in a chokehold and whispered in my ear. "Don't fuck with me boy or I will snap your neck like a twig." I'll be honest, I was really scared he was going to kill me but he just let go and laughed at me. "You're as pathetic as my dead son, " he shouted at me as he stood over me. It's the other old people I felt really sorry for. They ganged up on the more vulnerable old-timers. They had it in for one guy, poor Micheal. He got landed here a few days before I started. Nobody knew where he came from, he was just here one day. I was helping Micheal change his clothes after Mr Jones had thrown hot tea in his lap. Micheal turned and gave me a sorrowful look. "I'm not meant to be here, " he said to me. I looked at him confused. "What do you mean Micheal?" I asked. I'm not old. I'm not bloody old, " he cried. He grabbed my arm and looked me in the eye. "Ring my wife she will tell you, " he asked as tears rolled down his eyes. I really started to feel sorry for him. "What's your wife's name, Micheal?" I asked as he put his hand to his face. "I can't remember her name. Why am I here?" he asked as he became upset and confused. I put him to bed and went about checking on the other residents. As I'm doing the checks, I noticed the old gang of delinquents were missing. I searched everywhere for them and the only place I could think of was the cellar. I made my way down below and as I searched around I began to hear sobbing coming from the back of the cellar. I slowly made my way through the dark. The sobbing turned to pleas for help. I found a light and switched it on. The gang of old bastards were gathered around something. As I got closer I realised they had one of the staff members pinned to the ground. A young girl named Mary who had only started working here. "Get off her," I shouted. They all turned and hissed at me. They ran at me like wild dogs. They moved unnaturally on all fours, as they charged me. I started swinging and punching like a mad man, but they overpowered me. And before I knew it, I woke up in the cellar and everyone was gone. Including Mary the young girl, they were attacking. I phoned management to complain or tell them to do something about these old creatures. But they didn't want to hear it. Later on, that night when I got home I couldn't stop thinking about what they were trying to do that young girl. I even questioned my own sanity. "Did I really see what I saw? Course I didn't, weird shit just doesn't exist." I said to myself. I was making something to eat when I heard something moving around in my back garden. I grabbed a hockey stick I kept lying around for safety reasons and made my way to the back garden. I cautiously looked around. My heart was going a million miles a minute. I heard giggling coming from the large oak tree in my back. When I looked up I was horrified by what I saw. "What the fuck Mrs Janette? What the hell are you doing up there?" Why aren't you back at the care-home?" I screamed angrily. She looked at me and just giggled before lunging from the tree down on top of me. She hit me hard, knocking me off my feet as she landed on hers. I got to my feet as she made a run for me. I raised the hockey stick and hopped it off her head as she came at me, knocking her to the ground. She picked herself up and dusted herself off. She fled by jumping my fence. I tried to run after her, but I couldn't keep up with her, that old bitch ran faster than Usain Bolt. The next day back at work I tried my best to not let those old bastards get the best of me. Poor, Mary must've been too scared to come back to work as there was no sign of her all day. I slowly walked past Mrs Jannetts room as I made the daily checks. She was sitting on her bed silently staring at me with a sinister smile spread across her face. It was coming to the end of my shift and I was waiting for the late staff to take over. I couldn't wait to leave. The night staff were always late getting to work. As I waited patiently I heard a scream come from Micheals room. I thought he was hurt so I ran straight into his room and the next thing I knew I was waking up in the cellar with a pounding headache. Two of the old creatures were holding me down as Mr Jones stood over. "You don't get to my age and still be this active by just drinking prune juice if you know what I mean, " he said as he smirked down at me. He pulled out a strange-looking knife. Mr Jones and the rest of the creatures started chanting some kind of nonsense. I screamed at them to let me go. I struggled and struggled but they were too strong for me. Mr Jones sliced his hand with the blade, showering me his blood. Mr Jones looked around at all the other old bastards. "This one's mine, " he smirked. And then he leaned in to kiss me. When I came around to my senses a searing pain shot through my body. My bones felt weak and they ached all over. I had a splitting headache. I was back in the t.v room and I was sitting in one of the recliners. My legs didn't work and I couldn't get up. I looked down at my hands and couldn't believe my eyes. Two off the late staff had already arrived. And came into where I was sitting. They looked at me and looked at each other. "Why is it when one staff member goes missing, they dump another senile old bastard on us? Come on let's get you to your room." The two carers picked me up by my arms. "I'm not meant to be here. I'm not old, I'm not old," I tried to shout, as they dragged me down the hall. "Save it for someone who cares, you old fart.


It was the first Saturday of the summer, and the skies of Obsidian Springs were completely cloudless. The sun was beginning to peek its head from behind the summit of the volcano that loomed over the island city, creating rays of light and heat that slowly overcame the land and left an array of endless skyscraper shadow patterns in their wake. Small cafes and diners were packed with locals who were out welcoming in the sunny season, while the city’s infamous “Skyline Beach” was flooded with tourists taking pictures of the city from every angle imaginable. Although the view of the city was nothing short of awe-inspiring, it still placed second on the list of sights visitors looked forward to getting a glimpse of during their stay on the island. “Mommy, daddy! I wanna see him! When can we see him?” A blond haired boy shouted, taking a break from the several small sand structures he had been working on. “It’s not up to us, bud. He comes when he’s needed.” Responded the father, who was sunbathing with his face buried into his towel. “We will not be seeing him!” The boy's mother angrily interjected. “The second I hear even a peep about one of those hideous creatures lurking anywhere near this city, we’re getting our things and going straight back to the hotel.” “Awwwwwww, come on! No fair!” Whined the boy. “That’s enough!” The mother snapped back. “Relax, babe.” the father said nonchalantly. “It’s not a big deal. There hasn’t been a serious incident in over a year. The guys a pro! You really want the kid to miss out on the chance of seeing a real life superhero?” “Red Orion is the coolest!” Shouted the boy, who was now sitting down on a towel, shuffling his hands around the inside of a small red and white backpack. “I said that’s enough! I refuse to put my family in danger just to see some reckless psychopath in a halloween costume jump around the city and-” “REEEEEEAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!” The boy screeched, interrupting his mother’s speech. The boy stood up, still screeching, and began running around in circles. He held two action figures in his hands and waved each of them in the air. The first figure was a large, black, demonic dinosaur, with streaks of orange and red running up and down it’s entire body. It had spikes which resembled flames running all the way down its back to the tip of its tail. The second was a smaller, much brighter humanoid figure. It was painted almost entirely red, other than two white stripes that ran along each of its arms and legs, white shoulder pads, and a white belt wrapped around its waist with a matching “O” for a belt buckle. The figure's arms were pulled up and bent to it’s shoulders in a flexing position, and the top half of its face was covered in a red helmet. The muscular man smiled brightly. The boy bent down on one knee and began pouncing the dinosaur up and down into the sand while holding the red figure behind his back. “Oh no! A giant Eruptaur is attacking the city! Everybody run!” The boy shouted frantically. He took a moment to plant his knee firmly into the sand before flopping himself down onto his stomach in a dramatic fashion. He reached his arm back behind his head as far as he could extend it, took a deep breath, and swung it forward with all of his might, furiously crashing the toy monster into the sand structures he had built. “It’s destroying the city! Somebody help us!” The boy yelled. His mother shook her head in disappointment while his father buried his face back into his towel. The boy smashed the sand structures until there was nothing left for him to smash. He bellowed out one more ear-piercing screech before taking a moment to catch his breath. He paused for a moment, and then began to wipe several imaginary tears from his eyes. “The city is ruined.. All hope is lost.. I can’t believe it.. We need-” He gasped suddenly. His cheeks began to rise as he pulled the bright red figure out from behind his back and lifted it towards the sky. “Could it be?” He whispered. “Finally.. He’s here! It’s...” *** “Shield?” “Check.” “Club?” “Check.” “Bow?” “Check.” “With the arrows this time?” “Check.” “Check.” “Wait, what?” “Double check to make sure you have the damn arrows.” “Arrows - Check.” “Binoculars.” “Check.” “No, gimme the binoculars.” “Oh. Here.” The two men sat together on a rooftop on the far west end of the city. They faced outward towards the large volcano to the east with their legs dangling over the edge of the roof. The smell of the island's coastal swamp crept up from behind them and masked the stench of the piles of trash bags that lined up along the sidewalks below them. Pedestrians looked like ants crawling up and down the streets beneath their feet. Vince Varsity, better known to the public by his heroic alias “Red Orion”, was the larger of the two men. He wore a bright red, skin tight tactical jumpsuit, modified with built in white shoulder pads, white lining along his arms and legs, and a white belt with a matching “O” for a belt buckle. Known to the world as the savior of the city, Red Orion looked like he was ripped straight out of a comic book. He held the binoculars up to his face and aimed them out towards the volcano. “Where are ya, ya little fuckers?” He mumbled. “It’s still early.” The second man said, noticeably annoyed. He was a much younger and smaller man, although he barely qualified as a “man” in Vince’s eyes. He was known to the world as Red Orion’s trusty sidekick “Blue Belt”, but to the few who knew him personally, he was simply known as Billy. Unlike Vince, Billy held no extraordinary abilities. He couldn’t outrun a bullet, or kick a building down, or turn an Eruptaur into a pile of ash with one single punch. Although he was only human, what Billy lacked in physical prowess was made up for in wit, intuition, and his inherent desire to save people in trouble. In order to keep up with the world’s mightiest man and save as many people as he could, Billy was equipped with state of the art anti-gravity technology from head to toe. Anti-gravity gloves, boots, and a gravity pack attached to his back all allowed him to manipulate himself or his surrounding environment freely. A small motherboard strapped to his wrist allowed him to control all of his gadgets with ease. He wore a royal blue jumpsuit that was littered with pockets and straps, which were all used to carry Red Orion’s lethal arsenal. He went around his body and tightened each strap one by one, securing every weapon in its place. He knew an attack could happen at any moment, and he needed to be ready to back up his superior. “Mornings are always pretty quiet. What’s the rush?” Billy asked hesitantly. “Yeah, but they’re never this quiet. We haven’t seen a single one all day. I wanna kill something!” “It’s the first day of summer, man. The city is the safest it’s been in months. Everybody’s out enjoying the weather, you should be glad!” “Fuck that! My job isn’t to care about any of those people. My job is to hunt and kill. That’s it.” “Jeez, tell me how you really feel.” Billy scoffed. Vince stood up and pulled the binoculars away from his face. He placed his hand above his eyes to block the sun from blinding his view and averted his attention downward towards the city. “You know what your problem is, Billy?” Vince asked crudely. “You care way too much about those insects down there.” Billy stared at him blankly and didn't respond. “What's the point in caring for a bug?” “They’re not bugs. They’re people.” Billy objected. “Maybe that means somethin’ to you, but it’s all the same to guys like me.” “Guys like you? What’s that supposed to mean?” “Billy, when a mosquito sneaks up behind you and buzzes around your ear, what's your first instinct?” “What does that have to do with-” “Answer the question!” Shouted Vince, who was now squating on the edge of the rooftop. “I swipe my hand at it.” “Exactly! And why do you swipe at it?” Billy paused again, unsure of how to respond. He knew whatever he said would be challenged, so he decided to say nothing. “Because it’s a nuisance, and it’s weak enough for you to know that you can kill it with ease. If you swipe at it and miss, maybe it’ll fly away. But you’re not gonna chase it down and break your back just to get another shot at swattin’ it down. You’ll forget about it in 30 seconds, and eventually somebody else will have to deal with it. And maybe that person will get lucky and land a hit. And maybe they’ll kill it! But it doesn’t make a difference whether it lives or dies. Because for every one mosquito that dies, there's a trillion more to take its place.” “What the hell are you saying? You’d kill a bunch of people because their lives don’t matter?” “Not a chance. Sure, I could kill a bunch of people if I wanted to, but I don’t. Because I don’t care enough about these weak little bugs to chase em down with a fly swatter.” “So then why do you care so much about killing Eruptaurs? They’re even bigger nuisances than people are. They cause destruction and chaos. They kill people!” “So do humans. They’re just not as fun to fight.” Vince said smugly before letting out a soft chuckle. “That’s a real shitty way of viewing life.” Said Billy sternly. “Well, that’s why I’m the hero and you’re the sidekick.” Billy scoffed and turned away from Vince. He walked over to the other side of the rooftop overlooking the smelly swampland and sat down on the edge. Heat from the sun rising behind him pressed down onto his back, which made him feel comfortable. He concentrated on his breathing as he tried to push Vince’s pessimistic comments out of his mind. His eyes wandered through the marsh aimlessly for a few moments before focusing themselves on a large patch of sawgrass. He watched the tall blades sway side to side with each gust of wind that came and went, and tried to match his breathing with them. He remained hypnotized by the marsh for several minutes before being interrupted by a faint, yet noticeable vibration from beneath him. His neck turned swiftly to face Vince, who was already looking at him. “Did you-” “Yeah, I felt it.” Vince interjected. “Did it come from inside the building? Maybe somebody just slammed a door.” “What? Were you sleeping or something? The whole city just shook!” Billy stood up and jogged over to Vince. He grabbed the binoculars from Vince’s hand and aimed them at the volcano. “Vince, you don’t think..” “There's no way. HQ would have briefed us weeks ago if there was a chance of her erupting like that.” “Maybe an earthquake then?” Billy said, as he lowered the binoculars from his face and slipped them into one of his pockets. “Seriously? An earthquake? Don’t be an idiot. When was the last time we had an earthquake here in-” Obsidian Springs interrupted Vince with another shake, this one presenting itself in a much more aggressive manner than its predecessor. The building they stood upon rumbled and shook with a might strong enough to knock Billy straight off his feet. His legs kicked out in front of him causing him to fall straight backwards. He managed to catch himself by throwing his hands down to his hips and flexing his wrists, which was the motion he used to quickly activate his gravity gloves. He propelled himself forward and quickly caught his balance. The ground continued to rumble and showed no signs of stopping. Screams began echoing throughout the city below them as the quake continued to intensify. “This building isn’t stable. If this shaking doesn’t let up it’ll come down any minute. We gotta get movin’.” Vince ordered. “But what about the people inside!?” “Insects get squashed all the time, Billy! Now let’s go!” “No!” Billy shouted. He tapped the screen on his wrist and activated his gravity boots to their inverted mode, making his feet stick to the roof like they were super glued to it. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you help these people!” “Quit fuckin’ around Billy, let’s go!” “I’m not leaving!” Vince paused for a moment and stared at Billy. His palms balled themselves into fists and his eyebrows pointed downward towards his nose. He let out a furious groan. “Fuckin dammit Billy!’ He shouted, before turning around and stepping onto the edge of the roof. “I’m gonna get everybody out. I need you to get higher up in the air and get a better view of the city. Try to see if you can figure out what’s causin’ all this shit.” Before Billy even had a chance to nod his head, Vince was gone. A red streak of energy lingered in the air for several seconds before disappearing. Vince loved to show off his flashy speed, but he normally only used it while fighting. Although he was stressed, Billy was relieved that Vince was finally using his power to help people. For once in his life, Red Orion was acting like a real hero. Without hesitating any longer, Billy activated his gravity pack and began flying upward into the sky. He aimed himself east and flew closer to the middle of the city in attempts to get the best view possible. He climbed higher and higher into the clouds, using the summit of the volcano as his waypoint. Once he reached his preferred height, he stopped climbing and pulled the binoculars out again. He pointed them towards the building he had just been standing on and was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of Vince carrying out the final residents of the soon-to-be toppled apartment complex. He let out a sigh of relief and whispered “Thanks, Red Orion.” From there, he aimed his sights downward toward the middle of the city. He watched as the ground below him continued to shake. People were running and screaming in fear as they all looked for a safe place to shelter themselves. He zipped open one of his chest pockets and pulled out a small headset and placed it on his head. “Vince, can you hear me?” He spoke into the headset worrily. “I hear ya. See anything?” Vince’s muffled voice replied. “Not really. It’s chaos down there, though.” “Yeah, no shit. Notice anything weird up there? Any suspicious choppers or blimps or anything like that?” “Not that I see. It’s pretty-” Billy paused. Finally, after adjusting his focus to the sky, he noticed it. A warm, dull, purple glow emitting from the top of the volcano. “The hell?” He whispered, as he pulled his binoculars back up to his eyes. “What? What is it?” Vince’s voice shot through the headset. Billy floated and continued staring, but he didn’t respond. His eyes and mind remained focused on the volcano’s crater. “Billy! Hello? Can ya hear me? What the fuck’s goin’ on up there!?” Billy snapped out of it and dropped the binoculars down to his side. “I.. I don’t even know how to say it. The volcano, it’s.. It’s glowing.” “Glowing? What do you mean it’s glowing?” “I mean it’s glowing! The top is-” CRAAAAAAAAAAACK-ABOOOOM! A thunderous explosion roared throughout every inch of the city. Car alarms began sounding off, pedestrian screams reached an entirely new level, and every dog in the city was howling to the skies. Billy let out a stressful “Shit!” as he pulled the binoculars back up to his eyes. He pointed them to the top of the volcano again, expecting it to be spewing boulders of fire, but saw no change. The crater was still emitting a soft purple glow, but it remained peaceful. It wasn’t until he aimed his sights downward when he officially began to panic. A horrifically thick crack, starting at the very base of the volcano, had begun to race across the entire city. He watched as the ground beneath him ripped wide open, completely separating the city in half. Clouds of smoke began to leak from the depths of the earth, turning the city into a soot ridden wasteland. “Vince! Are you okay!? Where are you!?” “ECK - ECK - ECK!” Vince coughed. “Fuck this fuckin’ smoke!” “We gotta do something! What do we do, Vince!? We gotta make sure everybody down there-” “Billy, just hold on for a second! Get back on the ground.” Billy stopped and took a deep breath. He tapped his wrist and began to slowly descend from the sky into the smokey city. He placed his hand over his nose and mouth in efforts to avoid breathing in too much smoke. He was semi pleased to note the ground had finally stopped shaking when he landed, but that didn’t make his current situation any better. “Vince, where are you? I can’t see 5 feet in front of me.” “Just shut up for a second!” Vince barked. “Do you hear that?” “Yeah, every car alarm in the city is going off. What does that-” “No, not that! From below us. It sounds like..” Billy’s eyes widened as he realized what Vince was hearing. “Hissing.” He mumbled to himself. He jumped up and thrusted his arms downward, projecting himself up into the air as quickly as he could. He watched as a monstrous jaw snapped shut just an inch shy of his foot. An Eruptaur had nearly turned him into it’s lunch. “REEEEEAAAAAAAGGHHH!” The beast cried from directly below him, hopping up and down in attempts to catch his foot in it’s death grip jaw. “Eruptaurs!” Billy cried into his headset. “NO SHIT BILLY!” Screamed Vince. “I’m gonna get rid of all this fuckin smoke, take cover!” “I’m goin up!” Billy replied, as he soared back up above the smoke. Watching from above, he could finally see where Vince was. He watched in awe as the red energy streak zipped up and down the entire city within seconds. The wind Vince was creating with his speed caused the smoke to lift up and drift out towards the heavens. “That should do the trick.” Said Vince, who was now perched on top of a towering gray and white skyscraper. But with one problem solved, another presented itself in a much clearer, menacing fashion. The two men watched motionlessly, feeling as though they were frozen in time, as dozens of Eruptaurs clawed themselves out of the crack in the ground and began flooding the streets of the city.


-Eve- I haven't been out of the house in a while... It hurts to get out of the stone-cold bed in the morning. It hurts to interact with people. It hurts to get dressed and look at myself in the mirror. It hurts to see myself as the shell of who I once was, cracked from the inside-out. Even so, my friends convinced me to get out and meet someone. They signed me up for some stupid dating app and I found someone eager to meet me, so, despite my reservations about online dating, I mustered the courage to go. Sluggishly dragging myself out of my messy bed, traversing through mountains of abandoned clothing, I make my way to the bathroom to shower, brush my teeth, wash my face. I can't remember the last time I did this. The last time I went through all the steps to maintain good hygiene and self-care. It feels good to be clean on the inside, but the sinking feeling was filling me ominously. The mirror hurts me. My face is ugly. I'm not the only one that thought so. Choosing makeup is like a balancing act. You must choose a perfect medium to avoid scrutiny. The same goes for clothing. Not enough makeup and you're ugly, a masculine ugly wench undeserving of love and affection. Too much makeup and you're a cheap floozy or a clown deserving of sarcastic catcalling and being grabbed. If you dress too modestly, you blend into the background as a boring gray girl. And when you dress revealing you are an easy harlot who is showing off her body for male attention and are "asking" for it. Every morning routine I'm a funambulist on a tight-rope. It's exhausting... After at least an hour of struggling to assemble the perfect mask of makeup and clothing, I don't feel ready at all for the blind date ahead of me. He won't like me. That's for sure. Anyone could see me for who I am: a shy little girl just so scared of the world around her, a little girl shaking in fear from criticism lurking behind any corner. The air is cool and the town is bustling. The sun is high in the sky and the clouds are lazily floating through the pale blue sky. I am just going to get a coffee with a guy. It's nothing to be nervous about. And yet I am so incredibly nervous, I can feel every fiber of my being shaking. I grip my pepper spray like its a gun. My eyes are shifting nervously like a cornered animal, scanning down every alley and street for attackers. And what if my date is an attacker? Guilt and fear settle in my stomach like concrete as I wonder if I'm even brave enough to attempt to fend someone off. I am so scared, it is eating at the very core of my being. The coffee shop is insight. And, as a brave heroine would, I venture forward with timid courage. -Russel- I haven't been home in days... Every night's a different woman. A different thrill and another check on my list. It's so easy to find dates nowadays. Women practically throw themselves on me. They're desperate. All I do is sit and bask in their attention-seeking glory. I talk sweetly to a shy girl. She resembles a little doe, a small Bambi tripping over her long legs. Her eyes light up in excitement and wonder as I pamper her with fancy dinners. She has never seen anything so lavish and luxury before. Before she even understands, I swoop in so fast her little blonde head spins. And there's another notch in my bedpost. I don't know just how to play the game. I've mastered it. I am the puppetmaster of these girls. They become so enchanted with me and my confident ways that all it takes is one whiff of my expensive French cologne and they're eating out of my hands. It takes a lot of discipline to keep the schedule that I do. Workout at the gym, expensive Italian suits every day, hustle through work, then find a babe to go home with. It's a lot of hard work but I can handle it. And today is no different. The girl I'm meeting seems nice. Sweet, shy, probably insecure. The perfect type to romanticize. They play right along with the plan. And it works every time. I'm at the coffee shop 20 minutes early. That way I can scope out the local ladies in case things go awry (even though they never do). I can appear well-prepared and organized, the way a man should be. And I seem calm, cool, and confident as I just sip my black coffee. Unbothered as the girl stumbles towards me, confused and nervous that she's late. And just like that, she's already feeling that she owes me, feeling worse and desperate for positive reinforcement. A short, curvy girl with dark brown hair and eyes appears as the soft jingle of the coffee shop door echoes through the place. Her eyes are already nervous, scanning the room rapidly with fear and anticipation. All that nervous energy clashing against my confident calm makes a perfect blend for me to strike. Eventually, her eyes meet mine. I take a long sip of my coffee as she clumsily teeters forward, standing right above me. Her eyes don't stay in one place for long. She can barely maintain eye contact with me. Her long fingers are moving quickly and nervously, picking at her skirt and fidgeting. "Russel?" Her voice is quiet and sweet. She seems fragile and shy, like a little school girl. I don't even speak. I just gesture in front of me and she raises an eyebrow confusedly. I shoot her a condescending glance, hoping she gets the memo. Her big doe eyes fill with realization and shame as she sits in front of me, crossing her legs daintily and peering out the window. She looks uncomfortable and nervous. I lick my lips in anticipation. Let the fun begin... -Eve- "Are you going to order, Eve, or just sit there?" My heart jumps when I hear his voice. It's deep and gravely, a little intimidating. I try to retain my composure before answering. "Uhm, yeah," I chuckle nervously, "You already ordered?" He takes a long sip, keeping his cold hazel eyes trained on me. I look away as my cheeks heat up. "No," He says shortly. There's a hint of sarcasm in his voice but his tone is so cold that it feels hurtful. I force a dry laugh but it feels wrong. "I guess I'll go order something... W-would you like anything?" His stone face finally expresses something: curiosity. He raises an eyebrow and stares at me playfully, making my heart beat a little quicker. This time it's a good feeling it's... almost nice. Reassuring. "Yeah, I'll take a croissant," His voice morphs into a French accent at the end. He has a rich and foreign tone. He slips me a $20 bill with a twinkle in his eyes, "Get yourself something for the trouble." My heart is all warm and I know I'm blushing, but something is off-putting. I know I can't accept this. But why am I feeling some type of way? "Oh, no, I'll pay my own. But thank you," I smile shyly while taking the money and beginning to walk in the line. Quickly, something grabs my arm and pulls it back. In a panic, I yank it away and prepare to run. My heart's in my stomach and my hand is already feeling for the pepper spray. But when my vision clears it's Russel, holding my arm with a steel grip. I pull away again, but he was strong. The charming smile on his face makes me sick. "Hey, you're doing me a favor," He insists, power in his voice, "Just consider us even." I feel so intimidated that I just nod yes. Even when I order, I feel his eyes on me. I order the smallest drink possible as to not make him pay too much. Shivers travel down my spine as I hand the cashier the money. He looks out the window with his coffee in hand, as if he wasn't just staring me down. I hand him his change and croissant. There's an awkward silence until I sit down. He looks me up and down, almost judgingly. I feel shivers down my spine again. His cold eyes feel so protruding and frigid, like a doctor's stethoscope. "You got one of those prissy sugary drinks," He comments in a tone that should have been playful but comes off condescending, "That's not really coffee, is it? It's either the regular black or nothing." I want to laugh and joke along but I only feel cold judgment. Still, feeling like I have to, I force a smile and take a small sip. "I just like sugar." "Makes sense," His voice is low and rich, "Since you're so sweet." My cheeks are red but my heart doesn't feel so warm anymore. I want his compliments and flirting to feel good, to make me feel whole again. But every time there's a little piece missing, like an empty spot in my heart that even flattery can't fill. Every comment he makes enlargens the hole until I feel consumed by the void. Pushing the thought down, I take a long sip of my drink. "Thank you," I mumble quietly, "For the coffee." "Anytime, sugar," He says smoothly. I almost choke on my drink at the name. It should have felt warm and lovely. A bit shocking but then fading to tingly feelings. But instead, I felt cold inside. "I guess we should get to know each other," He sets the coffee down and stares me in the eyes like he means business. I do the same without even thinking. "Yeah," I murmur nervously, "I guess so." "So," He stretches the word out, thinking about what to say, "What was your last relationship like?" It feels like a knife in my heart. My windpipes are closed. My eyes are wet with tears. My entire body is aching from pain and I try to keep my composure. I can't bear to tell him the truth. Whatever leverage I had against him I would lose instantly if I did. "Uhm," I clear my throat, blinking away tears, "It was rough. He was uhm.... not a very good guy. Not a very easy break up either." Russel's eyes soften for the first time and suddenly I lose all suspicions about him. His body leans closer to mine, comforting and protective. I can't meet his eyes but I know they're trained on me, not judging but filled with pity. I never quite liked pity but it feels better than his constant condescension. "I'm really sorry, Eve," He says softly, his voice is like honey, "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want." I nodded while swallowing the lump in my throat. A little angry thought puts bitter words in my mouth before I can filter them. "How about you?" I normally wouldn't be so confrontational, but deep down I feel offended that he would even ask. It's so personal and triggering for me. I want to go on this date to get away from the pain that my ex caused me, not relive it in a different form. The least revenge I could get is to make him confess like I did. "Oh, you know," Russel strokes his clean short beard slowly, "I don't really do long-term, you know? Just go with the flow, float from flower to flower." My heart dropped. Nausea overtook my stomach. What were his intentions? Is there a reason he's so bold and upfront? "I, uhm," As I stumble for words, hoping to formulate some sort of protest to what he just said, he changes the subject. "So, do you have any hobbies?" I respond too quickly that I can't even say what I wanted to, "I love art." "Art?" He repeats, "Very interesting. Classy, even. Maybe I could take you to the museum sometime." "Oh, uh," I struggle to stay afloat in our conversation, it feels so one-sided, "Yeah. Sure. I mean, I would love to." "Ah, then it's settled," He cuts me off quickly, like he's closing in a deal, "We can go on Sunday." I feel so overwhelmed by his quick talking and strong, confident voice that I just nod along. I thought I was going on a simple coffee date but I'm flying by the seat of my pants and my head is spinning like a carousel. "Though, maybe you should wear something a bit classier next time," his eyes are zeroed in at my chest. Nausea and shame burn like poison in my throat. My cheeks are entirely red as I cover them slowly and guiltily, trying to hold back tears. Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm dressed too revealing, desperate for his attention. Well, here, I got it, but now it makes me look too easy. Every man in the area has to have stared at me the same way he is. His hazel eyes are hungry and full of competition like I'm a prize to win over. I feel like prey sitting there across from him. "Oh well, hopefully, those won't stay on too long anyway." That's when I snap. -Russel- That's when the crazy witch snaps at me. "Excuse me, but do you have any manners at all?!" She screeches, her hair going wild. Her dark eyes are wide and her little pupils are tiny. She looks insane. I almost would be scared of her if she wasn't already eating right out of my hands. "What?" I scoff, "Eve, what are you talking about? What's wrong?" "Shut up!" She yells. People around us are starting to stare at the scene unfolding. I have to control her, I have to calm her down somehow. If she flips now I won't have her in my clutches by sun-down. "Eve, sugar, just relax," I stand and place my arm on her shoulder, hoping to soothe the savage beast. My gesture is obviously too much for her as she jerks it away and stomps up to her feet with the chair falling over with her. Her face is completely red and her eyes are filled with tears. I'm worried for a second but then I realize I can work with this. She can let out her energy, then deflate into my arms. This can work. "Don't you dare call me that!" "Eve," I plead with her, "What did I say that makes you feel this way? I just want to listen." She is fuming and tears are streaming down her face in a snotty disgusting mess, "You have been nothing but rude and sexist and condescending this entire date. I'm nothing but prey to you, am I?" "What?" I shake my head, "Sugar, people are staring. Just calm down." She looks around the room at the people watching awkwardly. Her dark eyes fill with shame and regret. Most importantly, sadness and guilt. I can work with that. "It's okay, baby," I assure her, taking her hand in mine. Her hands are cold and rigid. I ease her back into her seat but her expression doesn't change. "There," I say soothingly, "Now we can talk this out rationally." "I'm done with being rational," She spits under her teeth, "I don't know what you planned to do with me after this, but I'm done. I've seen abusive men before and you have all the same traits. Get serious help, jerk." I sit in shock. I'm too bewildered to comprehend what happened until she's already stomping out the jingling coffee shop door. "Wait! Eve!" I call out loudly, desperately trying to catch up to her. Her hand is shaking in her purse. I need to get her back. I can't lose a girl like this. She turns down corners at least four times until we're back at the coffee shop. She's trying to get rid of me, I can tell. But I'm still hunting her down and I don't take no for an answer. I can still reel her in, I just need to catch up and talk. No woman can resist me, let alone reject me. The sun is starting to set. This is just a minor setback, I'm sure of it. By the end of the night, we will be with each other, making a wonderful ending off to our date. I'm sure of it. I'm right behind her. I grab her arm. She whips around so quickly I don't even see the pepper spray. -Eve- After I'm done running, I'm shaking. Tears streaming down my face. Fear rushing through my veins like ice. The hopelessness takes over my body again and all I can feel is that void deep inside of me, accumulating more mass. It physically aches. My heart feels heavy and broken. All I can see are flashbacks from past relationships, only with Russel's face on each memory. They all feel the same to me. I can never escape them. Because every time I think I've gotten rid of one, another one follows me down the street and grabs me. And another one whistles. And another follows my car all the way home. And the other one calls me a harlot. And another tells me I'm too masculine. And the next tells me I'm basic and I shouldn't be like every other girl. And one protects me from another and I know deep down I wouldn't have survived if a man hadn't stepped in to save me. I just feel helpless in this whirlwind. Closing my eyes as I seep into my bed, I wonder if I'll ever find peace.


There were things that Jared couldn’t quite understand. And these were the things that usually came easily to people. You might even argue that it was the things that made humans humans that Jared found most difficult to interrupt. Jared found it hard to empathize with other people and he felt little to no emotion. Label him if it makes it easier for you, the reader, to interpret. His mother was worried about him though he was the perfect son. Jared woke up, made a bowl of oatmeal ( the meal with the least emotion), went to school, smile and nodded when he was supposed to, he came home, did his homework then would fall asleep looking at his ceiling fan. What is mother suppose to complain about? He was doing everything he was suppose to just not with enough gusto. His mother wanted something from him. Anything. Nothing material or anything she just wanted to feel like there another person living in her house because right now Jared and his mother had more of a human- pet relationship. Like a fish or something. She’d drop a little food for him in his proverbial bowl and that would be all he needed from her. On a couple of occasions, she’d forget to feed him. She’d maybe get drained from her job at the hospital or would just fall asleep too early, in any case she’d come into his room and he’d be staring at his wall. She’d ask, “What are you doing?” “Nothing.”, he’d reply. “What are you waiting for?” Then he’d slowly turn his head and say, “To get fed”. The guilt would jolt inside her body and spring her into action and she’d begin to make him food. Although that’s how most of their conversations would go. There was no curiosity in Jared. It was simply a question- answer thing. “How was school?” “Fine.” “You have fun?” “No.” “Why not?” “Yes.” And so on. She’d start to feel less guilty as Jared got older. He got less cute and resembled his father more. The connection between mother and son waned. Jared’s mother decided that she maybe she found a way to get some kind of rise or emotion out of her son. The morning came and she put her plan into action. She would refrain from making her son any food and was on her way to her 36 hour shift. She would arrive home to find a hungry boy mad at his mother for not making him any food or she’d find a perfectly competent boy who made his own meal and is now fast asleep. When she arrived home 38 hours later she found her house oddly silent. She assumed that her boy finally did something for himself and he made a meal, but when she looked at her kitchen she found that nothing had really been used. “Well, maybe, he cleaned everything up after he used it”, she thought. She made her way to Jared’s room. There she saw her boy, full dressed, with his ass on the edge of him bed, his feet firmly planted on the floor but his body sprawled on his bed. There was a note stapled to his tee shirt. Jared’s mother yelled out Jared a couple of times and she listened for an answer or response of some kind, but only received silence. She moved slowly towards Jared, half expecting him to jump out at her, and she yanked the note from his chest. It read: “Didn’t like hunger. Killed self.” The coroner was baffled by this particular case. His official report stated, “The kid kinda just held his breath to death. Dang.”.  The weird thing is that as his mother stood above his lifeless body she felt little to no remorse. She felt nothing. So it was like an average day for her.


Together In Palm Tree Estates Palm Tree Estates was for the well-to-do. The people were mostly snobbish even to each other at times. In order for anyone to visit, they had to provide their name and identification to the gate attendant. If their name wasn’t on the list, they weren’t allowed in. As one resident put it: “It is a good way to keep the family riff-raff away.” Donald and Marge Thomas had been very excited to move into the posh neighbourhood. They had made a tremendous amount of plans and couldn’t wait to settle in. They already knew a few people that lived on the secluded island including the real estate agent, Sandra Bolton. She had given them a tour the day they were looking at purchasing a condo. “This is going to be wonderful especially when the children come over for Christmas.” There were tennis courts, bike lanes, walking paths, flowers and trees. It was a beautiful area. Donald smiled but wasn’t too sure. His wife was already sold. “What is it going to be like in the winter?” “Oh, the winter is just beautiful because you can go for walks and snowshoe and cross-country ski. The trails are well-maintained.” “I don’t like the cold,” announced Donald. “Then you can stay inside with a nice glass of wine besides the roaring fire.” “I don’t like wine.” Marge gave him a dirty look and he didn’t say anything else. So they moved in and it was a huge fiasco. The front gate attendant didn’t want to let them in or the moving van. Donald was furious, but Marge charmed the man. The kids and grandkids had come along to help. There were boxes everywhere and by the end of the day when everyone left, the old couple were exhausted. “Do you remember what happened the first time we moved into our new house?” He smiled in the dark just as he was about to slip into slumber land. “Yeah, I was twenty-five and full of lust. I am not seventy-five and I’m a bust.” They laughed themselves to sleep. Donald didn’t fit in Palm Tree Estates. It was that simple. He didn’t like the golf course on the island and wasn’t keen on hanging there at all. He didn’t even like the game. The problem was the in-crowd all hung out at the nineteenth hole before, during and after rounds. He didn’t like to go for a walk. Most of them had dogs and they didn’t pick after Fido. “There’s more poop on the streets in this ritzy neighbourhood then we had no the farm I grew up on,” he proclaimed. The worse part about it, Marge loved the new digs. She had made friends and unlike sour Donald, she fit right in and was part of the in-crowd. They went biking together and for afternoon walks. They had tea and played cards. They gossiped about everyone and laughed saucily. She was hardly ever home. This was another sour point with Donald. “Going out today dear?” “Yes, of course, I am. Do you want to come along?” “No.” The thought of having around a bunch of old birds was depressing. Besides, he hadn’t told his wife, but he didn’t exactly like any of her new friends. “They aren’t nothing but a bunch of old cackling hens,” he told the four walls. Jennifer, the oldest daughter had called her mother up. “So, mom, how do you like it so far?” “Oh, honey, I love it. It is great. Your father doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself that much. Today, I am going to play tennis. I have never played before in my whole life, I hope I don’t get tennis elbow.” Jennifer laughed. “I am sure things will get better for dad.” “I hope so. He won’t listen to a word I say or any of my suggestions. You know how stubborn your father can be.” “I am sure everything will work out. Bye mom, gotta go. Love you.” “Love you too, honey. Give my best to Richard and the kids.” “I will. Give dad a hug for me.” “It is in the bank.” Things didn’t get any better for Donald. He was bored and alone most of the time. Marge was always gone and there was nothing to do but watch TV and take naps. “This sucks.” Going for a drive wasn’t the answer because there weren’t that many roads and besides there was always someone walking or biking or some old fool rollerblading. Trying to get off the island was a pain in the butt and then trying to get back on was even worse. The ferry that came and went was unreliable. They only took so many vehicles at a time because the boat wasn’t that big. “What are we going to do if the river freezes over and we can’t get off this godforsaken island and we are sick?” Donald asked his wife. “My friends will take care of me. If you had friends then they would take care of you.” He grumbled something and went off into the den. One night, when she was actually hone and he wasn’t eating leftovers or whatever he could muster up, she smiled. “What’s up?” “The Rustons have asked us to come over for diner tomorrow night. There will be a few couples there and I made a commitment.” “Without asking me? I can’t stand Andy Ruston. The guy is a total loser.” “I’ve met him and he is a nice man. His wife Theresa is a sweetheart.” “She’s an old busybody, gossip and a genuine pain in the butt.” “How can you say that when you don’t even know her?” “Because I’ve heard her talk when she comes over. Have you notice every time she drops in -- usually when we are eating -- I ignore her?” “You are self-centred man, Donald Thomas. If have to, I will go alone.” She got up and left the table without finishing her supper. “That’s just a great kettle of fish to deal with.” He slept on the couch that night not daring to go into the bedroom. She didn’t invite him in. The next morning she was off with her friends biking. He looked out the window and it was very beautiful. The streets were tree-lined and the whole island was surrounded by water. There were flowers planted everywhere and all types of plants. The monthly condo fees paid for that maintenance. There was a full-time crew taking care of stuff. There were boats in the harbour and it was always nice to see a large ship go by in the shipping lanes. This was one of the few perks to living there. Donald decided to go for a walk and left the wife a note. “Hope she doesn’t have a heart attack.” He grabbed his had and walking stick and took off. The plan was to walk around the island and think about things. He hadn’t walked more than five minutes when somebody’s dog came running at him and they did battle fending the friendly pooch off with his walking stick. The owner came running. “What are you doing to my dog?” “Your Labradoodle attacked me.” “He would do no such thing.” “Yes, he did. Your lucky I don’t sue you.” “I will tell the Island Committee about this.” “Then do so.” She left in a huff. “That’s it, I’m outta here.” He started to walk back and then he saw Marge with her friends. He had never seen the woman in almost fifty years of marriage plus three years courting so happy. He bowed his head and toddle off home. She came in the late afternoon. “Donald, I’m home. What do you want for supper?” He came down the stairs dressed like he had a diner party to go to. “Where are you going?” “I thought the Ruston’s invited us to a diner party?” “They did. You are going?” “I was invited wasn’t I? It would be rude not to go. You had better put a step in your walk honey cause I don’t want to be late and I’m not going alone.” There was a twinkle in his eye. “Yes, sir,” she saluted him military style. She raced up the stairs, stopped and kissed him right. Then she continued. He came down the stairs and went into the den to wait for her. “I didn’t say I was going to like it honey.” He looked outside and sighed.