December 6, 1941 A bright blue sky for a hundred miles west ended the day. Cool mountain breezes, from the snowcapped Sierras, blew across the lowlands. A short hike to the edge of town, Alex and John searched for the house known as “Decay and Splendor.” Hidden among a neighborhood of pines, the gothic manor sat empty and foreboding. Boarded-up windows and tangled vines hid a once beautiful home fallen from glory. Dead leaves scented the air and swished along a buried sidewalk as they approached. Statues and figurines of white marble peeked out among the overgrown brambles. As they approached the gothic structure, birds flew in and out of the tower. Old newspaper covered the windows under fallen boards. Alex felt eyes watching him from a hundred directions. The “yeeek” of the weathervane drifting in the breeze sent many young men running home. No one had been brave enough to stay one night in this house. “Should we go in?” asked Alex. “Sure, why not,” said John. “What if we slept on the porch? No one’s ever done that before.” “Alex, I’m going inside with or without you.” Rumbling came from the east, where storm clouds stretched across the sky. “Do you want to sleep outside in that or do you want to come inside?” asked John. Alex hesitated, his legs trembling. To the west it was calm and sunny. “Should we go home and do this next weekend,” Alex asked. “Come on, we better get inside before it rains.” “Look at those clouds. It might be safer if we went home, John.” said Alex. “We’d better get inside before the rain starts. It’s starting to get cold, and I want to start a fire.” John walked up the steps. “Go ahead, when the fire is lit, come and get me. I’ll stay out here a little longer.” The thunder reminded Alex of rocks in a barrel rolling down a hill. Lightning flashed in a tall tower of clouds. Dust devils picked up leaves and whirled them around the courtyard. Warm air clashed with cold, and the storm winds howled around the lonely house. The thumping of John’s boots were almost as loud as Alex’s heartbeat pounding in his ears. “John, you’ve got to see these clouds,” said Alex. The sun faded orange along the horizon, as this thunder boomer crept closer and closer. Animals quieted their noises and prepared for the rain. “Alex,” said John Shaken back to the present, Alex spun to see John glowing in the light of his lantern. Fear gripped him in anticipation of a creature reaching out to tear him limb from limb. “I almost died.” shouted Alex, clutching his chest. John looked at Alex, amused. “I called you from inside. The fire is going. Let’s get out of the cold.” Heart racing, Alex grabbed his bag and headed up the steps and inside. Green paint flaked free of the house and mixed with the leaves and trash blowing around the porch. “Are you sure this place is safe? It won’t come falling down on our heads tonight, will it?” said Alex. “No, it’s over a hundred years old. Built with the best wood money could buy. Look, would I do this if it weren’t safe?” John jumped down three steps to the floor, holding onto the banister when he landed. Thunder boomed as he hit the floor. The timing couldn’t have been better. The house shook with the vibration as the storm hissed rain outside the open door. Eyes wide open, Alex slammed the door shut and barricaded himself against the frame. “Never do that again.” he said. John grinned. “It was good timing. I didn’t know. How about we sleep in the dining room tonight?” John said. “Right next to the fireplace.” Alex stood paralyzed from the waist down. Listening to rain slapping the sandstone beneath the gutter sent chills up his spine. Witches tapped on the windows and snakes hissed right outside the door. Cannon balls covered in flames rolled down the halls, crashing into everything. It's all he could imagine. “It’s a storm Alex. Come on in.” A lightning bolt, bright enough to highlight every room, followed by thunder, exploded outside the house. Alex jumped across the floor and slid to a halt. Grabbing his bag, he ran to the fireplace and plopped on his knees, trembling, holding the pack for safety. “Why, why, why, why, did I agree to this? What was I thinking? I want to go home," he said. “You’re going to be OK. There are no such things as ghosts," said John. Sliding out his sleeping roll and untying his pack. John went about his work setting the example of calm under pressure. Nerves of steel, that’s what he believed in, like his father said; “With nerves of steel you can handle anything.” Alex didn’t believe him. He sat there and trembled, gripping his bag. A nest of spiders, disturbed by the heat of the fire, ran from under the mantel and up the chimney wall to the ceiling. Up into the darkness they ran, ten, twenty, fifty, and then they vanished. Alex sat like a statue, crushing the contents of his bag against his chest. I’ll wake up covered in spider webs. They’ll suck my blood dry, he thought. “Hey Alex, are you going to sit there all night?” John waved his hands in front Alex. Shadows from his fingers loomed across the room. Alex could see John's fingers even after he closed his eyes. He opened them to see John’s grinning face staring back at him. “You’re fine, you’re safe with me.” Alex lightened his grip on the bag. It tipped to the floor. Five minutes later, everything was laid out. They made their sleeping rolls like boy scouts. John, in his sock feet, sat and ate a Hershey bar while Alex contemplated all the ways he might die that night. “You should have brought something to eat,” said John. “I did, but I’m not hungry.” Alex looked sad. He listened to the rain outside, the fire snapping, and his courage draining away. “Why did you do this? Why did you bring me here, John?” asked Alex. John froze mid-bite. He looked at Alex. The heat from the fireplace warming his face. Through the orange light, he could see his friend was pale. “Look, we’re about to turn 17. The world needs men with confidence. Men who can face their fears and not blink. Do you understand?” Alex understood. That’s what "Boy’s Life" was teaching him and the Boy Scouts. He unpacked a chunk of cheese and looked into the fire as he picked at it. I want to be a man. He thought. Raindrops fell through the chimney and hissed around the fire. Alex looked at John. He always felt stronger with John. They’d been friends their whole lives. Alex gnawed at his food. His round cheeks regained their color. Then he became emotional. “John, what’s it like to have your dad around?” asked Alex John crumpled the empty Hershey wrapper and tossed it in the fire. “You miss yours, don’t you?” Both their fathers served in the Great War together. Both their families lost relatives during the Spanish Flu. After these two were born the country fell into a depression and Alex’s father left to find work. It'd been several years, and he hadn’t returned. “Yeah, I miss my dad. He wasn’t here to teach me things like your dad.” Alex became quiet. “I’ll tell you a secret,” said John. Watery eyes looked up. “I never had a brother, and I always felt like you were one to me.” John grinned. This comforted Alex. A heavy sniff and he and John stood up to explore the house. Old mouse droppings lay among thick dust now scuffed by their boots. The place was old and musty, but not rotten. Kids told stories about people lost inside forever. They said the basement, meant for animal sacrifice, was bloody and full of shrines. Feral cats would stare at you from the fireplace or atop the stairs. Their glowing yellow eyes watching your every move. A constant tap, tap, tap came from a room down the hall. Alex and John went to investigate. Room after empty room showed nothing but peeling wallpaper and bare floors. Alex looked behind him as much as he looked ahead. The feeling someone would appear over his shoulder at any moment; scared him stiff. Down the hall, a cool breeze blew cobwebs along the ceiling. Step after step they moved through the darkness. John felt brave, but Alex’s heart beat harder and harder. “What do you think it is?” asked Alex. “Only a leak in the roof.” “Do you have a knife or anything?” asked Alex “No, why would I have a knife?” “I wish I had a knife.” said Alex “Why?” “So I could give it to you,” he said. John looked at Alex from the corner of his eyes. “Lets go.” Easing their way down the hall, the bathroom door was half open. The noise came from inside. Pushing the door, its hinges creaked, and the lantern filled the room with a yellow light. Rain dripped through a broken window on to the floor. “See, it’s nothing.” Turning back, Alex lunged across John’s path. Sudden movement in the darkness came at them like the wind. Alex braced for impact when a sheet of newspaper hit him in the face. Alex’s mind knew what it was, but he couldn't believe it. John grabbed the paper and pulled it away. Alex stood motionless, eyes closed, waiting to die. “Thank you, Alex.” John crumpled the paper and tossed it on the floor. Together they breathed a sigh of relief. Foot steps and howling wind were all the boys heard as they walked from room to room. Back downstairs by the fire. For a moment the two sat silent. “You know, you saved my life back there.” said John. “How, from the funny pages?” said Alex “It’s not the point. Did you see what you did?” “No?" “When you thought we were in danger, you threw yourself in front of me to protect me from getting hurt.” “So?” “That’s the point. You didn’t know what it was, but you sacrificed yourself to protect me. That’s the most brave thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.” Alex sat up straighter. “You mean it?” “Yes, I mean it.” John ran a hand through his hair. “You're the bravest person I know.” Alex smiled. “Yeah, I’m not scared anymore. Let's go down to the basement and see what’s down there.” “Lets not get too brave.” said John. Rain, interrupted by thunder, calmed to a steady gentle rhythm. The fire popped and smoked, raging brighter with new logs, then calming to red embers. The night and its symphony of sounds relaxed the boys. Lying on their backs, listening to the rain, they waited to fall asleep. “Alex, do you remember what we learned in history this year? Do you remember what Thomas Paine said?” Alex looked confused. “It’s from ‘The American Crisis.’ Do you remember? ‘These are the times that try men’s souls.’” Alex looked over at John, then understood. John grinned. “Yes, you remember, don’t you?” Alex looked up and confidently said. “Yes, my favorite line was: The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.” Lying prone, John raised his hands in presentation to the world around them and said. “We are in this house on the edge of town. Tonight we’ve faced our fears. Tomorrow we will be men.” “Do you believe that?” said Alex. John’s fingers crossed and settled on his chest. A deep sigh, but no answer. “Do you ever think about what the future will bring?” “No, I think about summer, and baseball.” “My dad always said to go with your gut. My guts are telling me somethings coming.” “Do you mean like a fart?” Laughter echoed off the walls. A large peel of thunder sounded in the distance. Uncontrolled hysterics warded off any fears. Gasps and chuckling followed by yawns and stretches settled between them. “John, do you think we will ever be as great as our fathers? I mean, will we get called upon to live the life they lived?” “If my gut is right, yeah, I think we will. Someday. Besides, if history has taught us anything, it’s that it will repeat itself.” “Do you think we will have to fight the Germans again someday?” Lying with one hand behind his head, John looked at Alex. “That’s what my gut is telling me. Someday, we will fight the Germans again. My dad keeps telling me it’s important to go camping with the scouts, he’s even teaching me how to shoot at groundhogs. It’s like he knows something isn’t right.” “Do you think he could teach me how to shoot? I’ve never shot more than a sling.” “I don’t see why not?” “I miss my dad.” said Alex “If he were here, do you think he’d have anything to tell me like your dad?” “Sure he would. All dads are like that. They want their kids to make the world a better place.” “Do you think we can make the world a better place?” Alex asked. “I’ll tell you like my dad told me. You can make it better, or die trying.” Alex grinned and relaxed for the first time that night. Steady breathing broke the silence. Light rain patted the roof. A warm fire and full stomachs ended the night.


Adrian woke with a hangover, and with the morning sun hitting him full on in the face through the lounge room’s bay window, needling his eyes like so many white-hot skewers. He pulled the blanket over his head and tried to block out the light, along with the feeling like his cranium was going to split open and his brain was going to ooze out of his nose and ears. But the blanket did little to help. In truth, along with the pounding in his head and unrelenting assault on his senses, he felt overheated, sweat-less, and delirious with a notion that he would like nothing more to plunge himself into the river that ran behind his friend’s house and drink it dry. Corey, the friend Adrian had been staying with during his separation and subsequent divorce from his wife, had been gracious enough to allow him to crash out on the leather couch in the lounge room for the past few weeks as the divorce was finalized. The house was large and rustic, airy and open, and settled in amongst the copses of tree far enough back from the main road to provide a secure sense of privacy, while also being near enough to the thoroughfare to cause envy in all those who drove past on their daily commutes. It was, truth be told, too large for one man and Adrian couldn’t help but feel that it was lonely in its extravagance, though pleasant in the aloneness he could experience at any hour of the day despite the knowledge that his friend was never more than one or two rooms away. Adrian kicked the blanket away and groaned as he sat up. Where it had managed to make contact with bare skin, the couch’s leather peeled away with a sucking sound. What he needed right now was coffee and a lot of it. He padded around the couch across the lounge room’s large area rug and stepped off onto the cool hardwood that tied all the rooms in the house together. The kitchen was a straight shot and he followed his shadow past the central island to the counter top on the far side where the coffee machine sat. He switched it on and it gurgled and dripped and started to infuse the air with a bitter smell that he sorely could not live without this morning. In the meantime, he went over to the sink and filled a glass to the brim with room temperature tap water, downing it with one long gulp, and then doing it again. He also snapped a banana from the bunch hanging on a hook in the middle of the island and mashed it into his face. Despite how awful he felt physically there was still a growing sense of excitement within him as he realized what this new morning was bringing with it. Thankfully, he’d set up the SLR the night before, before he and Corey had soaked themselves in alcohol and sponged it up with a ‘Congratulations on Your Divorce’ cake, and he now pointed it at the couch he’d slept on the night before, crawled back beneath the blanket, and did a re-enactment of himself rising from his slumber on that new morning. He then turned the camera around to the bay window and filmed himself passing in front of it in shadow. He performed both of these actions a few times each to make sure he had enough coverage, and by then the coffee machine had finished spitting out its life-saving nectar and he rewarded himself with a cup. He felt the steam from the coffee on his face, the heat on his knuckles where they grazed against the mug’s ceramic--tasted the lashing bitterness as it flowed past his gullet and coated his throat; listened to the birds in the trees outside performing a lively orchestration of the dawn’s chorus--and everything was still for the moment. “Morning,” Corey croaked as he emerged from the farther reaches of the house and hobbled his way over to the coffee machine. Adrian raised his cup and muttered, “Morning,” past it before taking another sip. Corey’s eyes were small and tight and he grimaced as he filled his own mug and tried to take a few tentative sips from it before the coffee had gotten a chance to cool. He then rummaged through his cabinets and drawers for a bowl, a spoon, and a box of sugary cereal. The bowl and spoon he threw onto the table, dumped the cereal into the bowl, and drowned the cereal with milk before plopping himself down before it. He spend long moments crunching meditatively before regaining enough of his vigor in order not to appear as if he were about to keel over at any moment. “So...” he spoke, “today’s the day.” “Today’s the day,” Adrian agreed. “Nervous?” Adrian shrugged, but he said, “A little.” Corey crunched some more, then he stated, in a way that was not open to argument, “You’ll be fine.” Adrian sighed. “Yeah.” He then turned around and looked out the kitchen’s window, toward the pole barn garage that sat next to the house, tucked a little farther back into the trees than the house was. The doors on the garage were closed, but in his mind he could vividly see what awaited him on the other side. He’d spent three years constructing the.... Even now, he wasn’t sure what to call it exactly, even to himself. The best way he could describe it was as a cabin-on-wheels, which was a pretty fair assessment, honestly, but lacked the “oomph” he desired when telling others about it, particularly his audience and anyone he might meet in the future. A “rolling habitation” had been offered up by one of his fans, and while he wasn’t against using the term he knew that the words would sound ridiculous the first time he uttered them. Up to this point, he’d referred to the construction as “The Project”, a name which stuck (at least for him) and which brought with it the kind of seriousness and self-importance he otherwise felt he lacked in every other area of his life. Three long years to arrive at this moment. Even now it felt like nothing more than a pipe dream. Though, perhaps, it’d been even longer in the making. Almost ten years to the day, he’d married London, his now-ex-wife, and had gone to work for her parents’ company. While her father had informed Adrian that he would need to start from the bottom and move up like any other employee, the older couple had been gracious enough to provide a house and the furnishings to go along with it for the newlyweds. And then, later, a new car for Adrian, to replace the older-model, banana-yellow Datsun he’d been driving previously, which had stuck out like a sore thumb next to his wife’s black Benz parked in front of their white-picket-fenced, all-weather-aluminum-siding-ed, quaint, little starter home. He’d loved that car. He’d bought it at seventeen with the money he’d earned from a summer job and taken pride in fixing and maintaining it ever since. But, at his wife’s parents’ behest, it was gone just like that, to be replaced with a Porsche that, while fun to drive, didn’t have that homey, lived-in feeling he’d enjoyed so much with the Datsun. He should’ve never let that car go. And true to his father-in-law’s word, Adrian did start out at the bottom of the family-owned company, though he did sense that he was given preferential treatment, being the bosses’ son-in-law and all. He was promoted in no time at all, and given responsibilities, and promoted yet again. London, obviously, had been working there for some time already and was well on her way moving up through the ranks herself. Meaning, she was higher up in the company than he was, and would remain so throughout their marriage; and, in all honesty, she was far more upwardly mobile than he was. Though he wanted to keep an open mind about it, it did bother him that, as the man, he was not the breadwinner in the home. He cared far too much about it for far too long. To recall it even now made him ashamed. But it worked out in the end. The promotions kept coming, but he began to refuse them. This was maybe five, six, years into the marriage and the bubbling vat of discontent that he realized he must’ve felt since day one had grown too hot and sulfurous to ignore any longer. The marriage had begun to smell of rotten eggs. The grave looks of disappointment on his in-laws’ faces too long and drawn to go unseen. Even London herself had taken to berating him for his lack of ambition. He’d found himself in a dire situation with seemingly no way out. “I’m going to head out to the garage,” Adrian announced, and gave a head-nod to Corey. He brought the mug of coffee with him. He exited from the kitchen through the side door and stepped out into a warm spring morning. Out here, the birds’ shrieks and chirruping was cacophonous, and the air was alive with the smells of verdant vegetation, muggy with the mists that rose off the mud-brown river. He raised the largest of the garage’s bay doors, and there it was--“The Project”--looking ridiculously alien with its white-and-black cab facing him, which was dwarfed by the peaked-roofed, all-wood construction that sat just behind it. Inspiration had struck in the form of a YouTube binge. He’d somehow managed to happen upon a few of those travelogue channels. They were all so self-sufficient, rugged and tanned and bright-eyed, callouses on their fingers. Each day was a new adventure, it seemed; something always breaking down, a freak storm that had to be faced, food-poisonings and twisted ankles and flaring tempers. But most importantly, there was the thick grease of freedom smeared across every inch it, a duty to the highest Being: the Self. He’d fallen in love with the notion almost immediately. Luckily, he’d saved tens of thousands of dollars at that point--he’d had nothing else to spend it on--and he’d quickly arrived at the idea that he would buy a box truck, strip away the cargo container from the back, and build a small, narrow, wooden cabin over the chassis instead. It was an absolute insane idea for him to have, but once he’d had it he couldn’t let it go. He just needed somewhere to store it while he worked on it. That’s where his friend, Corey, came in. He’d first met Corey while working at London’s parents’ company, another sad sap just as disinterested with rising through the ranks as he was, though Corey had the good sense to get out much sooner than Adrian did. He’d left the company about eight years before to pursue an education in law, and somehow the two of them had continued to keep in touch during that time, trading texts back and forth to each other every few months. Adrian only had to ask to use Corey’s spacious garage in order to find a home for “The Project” and he was good to go. Or almost. In order to do it “right”, in order to do it “properly”, he needed something more than just “The Project” itself. He needed to document the journey. And, seeing that he’d be pouring all of his savings into building the thing, he needed capital to fund the start of his own YouTube channel, “By the Back Ways”, to kick-start it if you will. So he created a Kickstarter and set the goal at $5,000. This, he informed his backers, would allow him to purchase all the necessary equipment--the cameras, tripods, microphones, etc.--as well as hire a graphic designer to create the channel’s logo and, most importantly, to pay for a editor to sort through the footage and make something watchable out of it. Adrian wasn’t going to bother trying to fool himself into thinking that he knew the first thing about creating compelling content. And, luckily, the Kickstarter not only reached its goal in a matter of just a couple of weeks, it finished with double the asked for amount, despite Adrian never promising his backers anything more than a YouTube channel chronicling his attempt to make a traveling abode; despite being upfront with the fact that, unless there was actually an audience for it, the channel would be short-lived. “By the Back Ways” was not short-lived, though it could’ve easily died during the first few months. Adrian had underestimated just how much it would cost to hire a knowledgeable editor and even with the extra money he had to play with his funds dwindled with frightening rapidity. In addition, YouTube’s algorithms were not kind to him, which made it impossible for him to quality for their AdSense program during those first few months, and the money he earned when he did finally quality was only a pithy amount, besides. Though it made him feel beyond guilty to do so, Adrian found that he had to plea with his viewers for even more money. He set up a Patreon and this time he actually came up with tier rewards for the most generous patrons, such as exclusive live-streams of the build-in-progress, little rubber key-fobs with the channel’s logo printed on it, and, for the most insanely generous patrons, the promise that “The Project” would come to visit them, so long as they lived somewhere within the continental United States (he would’ve restricted it to only the contiguous U.S., but there was something very appealing about taking the cabin-on-wheels up into the snows of Alaska). This created a relatively steady stream of income to keep the channel up and running, and from there it was pretty smooth sailing. Of course, things only worsened more and more in his personal life. With the “The Project” well under way all of his free time was readily spoken for and any inkling he might’ve had to apply himself at his in-laws’ company went right out the window. London thought it was a foolish endeavor and belittled both it and him to no end. Adrian found every excuse he could to go to Corey’s and either work and film, or just hang out with the burgeoning lawyer. Somehow, even with how bad things were during that time, it didn’t occur to Adrian to pursue a divorce until Corey brought it up; and even then it wasn’t something that he gave serious consideration to start with. “Divorce is like giving up,” he’d told Corey. “I don’t want to give up just yet.” Corey could only shake his head sadly. During the previous year Adrian’s home life had only grown more and more claustrophobic, until he was afraid to even breathe if it might set London off on telling him how much of a failure he’d become. He’d even willingly started sleeping on the couch most nights so he wouldn’t have to feel like she was fuming at him even in her dreams. In retrospect, he knew he’d left it for much too long, but unlike the excitement and drive he felt for “The Project” he could feel no similar drive to end his marriage and he only walked toward that dawning notion with tentative steps. It wasn’t until “The Project” was nearing completion and he had to consider how he would support himself while out on the road that Corey came to him with the magic word. “Alimony.” “Alimony?” “Yeah, you do realize that London makes more money than you do, right?” Corey’s eyes shone with impish gleam. “Of course!” “Well...if you two were to get divorced she would have to, you know, pay you alimony.” “Really?” “Yep!” He wore a malicious grin. Adrian thought about it. “You know,” he said, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re really into the idea of me getting divorced.” Corey, so reserved otherwise, laughed maniacally. Now, here Adrian was, out of a job as soon as he informed his to-be-ex-wife of their divorce, out of a home just as fast, but fortunate enough to see a sizable payment coming his way each month as soon as the ink dried on the papers. Corey, acting as Adrian’s divorce lawyer, would receive London’s payments and deposit them into an account that Adrian would be able to access from anywhere. He was set. All that was left was to actually begin the journey. Adrian unlocked the driver-side door on the cab and climbed in. On the dashboard were two mounted Go-Pros, one facing forward and one facing back toward the driver’s seat. He switched on the one facing back and set it to recording. He also picked up a handheld audio recorder from the passenger’s seat and switched that on and started it recording as well, then placed it on the dashboard alongside the camera. Adrian took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and gave a single, sharp clap to his editor would be able to sync up the audio and video later. Then he spoke: “This is it,” he said with awe, “this is where it all begins.”


The school principal sat at his desk impatiently tapping his pen. He looked at his watch before furrowing his brow and shaking his head. “Sir, Mr. Warford is here to see you,” his secretary said through the speaker phone. “Thank you, Ealith, please send him in,” the principal replied. Mr. Warford walked into the principal’s office. “You wanted to see me sir?” “Warford, take a seat please,” the principal said, skipping all the usual pleasantries. Mr. Warford sat down and crossed his legs. The principal sighed. “Warford, you know why you’re here don’t you?” Mr. Warford shifted in his chair but didn’t reply to the obviously rhetorical question. “We’ve had several complaints now,” the principal continued, “Parents are upset. I’m receiving calls and letters, I got yelled at yesterday. Now, we’ve discussed this several times, but I don’t want you teaching these kids about the Lord of the Rings!” “But, sir,” Mr. Warford replied, “I’m an ethics teacher here. These kids are asking me about ethics and history and I am simply answering their questions.” “You have been accused of *indoctrinating* these kids,” the principal said as he reached over his desk to grab a letter. “Look at this one, it says here that one of the kids came home asking about Frodo Baggins.” “And here’s another one,” the principal continued as he grabbed another letter, “This is from a mother who says her daughter wanted to be like Galadriel the elf.” Mr. Warford smirked. “This isn’t funny Warford!” the principal said sternly, leaning onto his desk. “This has got to stop! You’re an ethics teacher, these kids are 10 years old. Teach them about right and wrong, don’t do bad things, that sort of thing. Stop talking about silly myths and legends!” “But, sir,” Mr. Warford replied sternly, seemingly affronted. “With all due respect, these are not silly myths and legends. Millions of people around the world believe this and base their ethical beliefs on the teachings of the book.” “Warford,” the principal said leaning back in his chair, an exasperated smile on his face, “I really don’t understand you. An educated man, a teacher for goodness’ sake, believing in children’s stories about hobbits and elves and Sauron. Yes I know we were all taught this at one point, but you have to know, this is all nonsense.” “I don’t think it’s nonsense, sir,” Mr. Warford said seriously. “I believe it to be true. And all I am doing is presenting the children with an alternative view on our world.” “Warford, that’s enough!” the principal snapped, “This is the last time I am going to tell you. Stop teaching students about the Lord of the Rings or you will be fired. No more warnings. I will *not* have another parent complain to me about what you are teaching their children.


I remember waking up to a blinding bright light. I squinted and waited for my eyes to slowly adjust to my surroundings. I was cold, freezing actually, standing in a strange metal tube with a large glass door before me. I quickly searched for an escape and found a large red button saying “release”. Instinctively, I pressed it. The glass door slid open, releasing hyper-cooled air into the room. I stepped out and noticed 5 other tubes in the room, the same structure as mine, their contents hidden by the clouds of chilled gases. I looked around. I was surrounded by gadgets and gizmos, all of which I had never seen the likes of. Lights were flashing, monitors beeping, and machines whirring and clicking. I watched the strange do-hickeys operate for a few seconds, transfixed by the complicated inner-workings. I concluded that I had been abducted by some sort of extraterrestrial being, and some baby alien is going to rip through my stomach after using me for all of my nutrients. By the time I had made peace with the fact that I had been probed, I noticed a sound. It was different from the ticks and clicks and beeps and boops of the high tech alien space technology. No, this sound was softer and familiar. I listened closer, yes, I do know that sound, it's the sound of my old guitar. I could hear the gentle vibrations of the strings producing such lovely little notes. I followed the sound, out of the tubular room and down the hallway. I entered what must have been the bridge of the spacecraft. A massive window allowed the red Martian surface to be in full view. It looked as though we were in orbit. There were seven seats in the command room, but only one was occupied. It was the source of the music, a man older than I, most likely in his early fifties. His eyes were closed, and he was playing a simple tune, one I had heard before, but could not identify. I stood there listening to him play. His hair was white and short. His face was clean-shaven and he had laugh lines on his cheeks. He wore glasses, 1950s style, nothing interesting. I’m not sure how long passed before he noticed me. Lazily, he opened one eye, still strumming his tune, and gazed at me before closing it again. “Good morning.” He said. “Hello,” I replied, a bit annoyed, “What’s happening, where am I?” He chuckled, “You’ve got some memory loss I see.” He waved me to sit down in one of the chairs, “You will remember everything in time, but I suppose I can catch you up while we wait for the others.” The others? I guess the others in the pods. I then noticed the convenient amount of seating on the bridge. “Welcome to the USS Iroh, where you have been asleep for the last six months. The first, and last human mission to Mars.” “What do you mean, ‘first, and last’?” He gave me a look that told me the answer wasn't a good one. “Humanity has fallen, and not due to an outside force. There was no meteor, no plague, and no global climate destruction. Humanity fell because we thought that we were above the rest of the animal kingdom, but we follow the same rules that they do.” “I... I don’t understand.” My memory was so fuzzy still. I remember things being bad on Earth but I never imagined an end to civilization. “The problem that brought about an end to society has been around since our species' childhood on the planes of Africa. The ego. Because we can only see and observe and perceive from our senses, we create an invisible bias to ourselves, our problems, and our existence over anything else. I perceive me as me and everything else as, well, everything else. “This bias, ever so slight, caused slavery, racism, the wealth gap, and the premature deaths of countless human lives. We all believe that our point of view is better than others, and if someone argues that view, winning is more important than being correct. “What happened to humanity was simple, we forgot what truly mattered. We forgot that we are all humans, and we are trying to do our best at life and we fail all the time. We forgot that we are only as strong as our weakest link, and when half of the world does not have access to clean drinking water, our species is as weak as that half of the human population. “We forgot how to think for ourselves, and we chose to let other people take care of our issues. We forgot how to reason, and think about our actions and decisions. We forgot how to imagine, and dream, and strive to achieve the impossible. “We forgot what makes us human. “So, because we never learned to truly care about one another, our constant bickering and hatred continued. All it took was one irrational person to rise to power in a country nobody expected, to begin the apocalypse. A few brilliant minds saw the war coming and engineered this baby,” he slapped the main console, “Humanity’s final stand.” “Is there anyone else on board?” “There's seven of us on the bridge and 50 civilians.” “But, why me?” He sat up in his chair. “I’m not sure how much you remember, but you might be able to guess.” I thought for a second, “I worked on this?” “You were the chief engineer,” the man chuckled again and handed me my guitar, “Do you remember why we called it ‘Iroh’?” “I can’t say that I do.” “General Iroh, a fictional character, yet important nonetheless. Iroh, once a warlord who was responsible for the deaths of thousands of men, decided to give up everything he had after losing his son in battle. Through his emotions, he came to understand his true destiny, to spread the message of peace, kindness, hope, and prosperity. He reminds us that though we have made great mistakes, we can be redeemed.” “So you’re saying there’s hope?” “In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself.” He smiled at me, “And besides, I don’t believe in the impossible.” Then he looked up toward the hallway. A woman, maybe early thirties, was eyeing us with a look of confusion. “Good morning, please, come sit.


**This story refers to the loss of a spouse, and includes light profanity and a very brief assumed reference of abuse.** Remember that time in Malaga? You and me, and Jonah? We arrived with twenty bucks in hand and no plan at all. I’ll never forget that night. Remember that bar we landed at? I think I was five energy drinks and vodkas in, and Jonah had had at least that much. Remember how much we laughed? I’ll never forget the look on the bartender’s face as Jonah jumped onto the counter and did a cartwheel. I still can’t believe he landed on his feet when he slipped and fell off. Sometimes I dream about him, you know. His sandy brown hair that would fall over his eyes. His smile so wide and happy you could hear him laugh, even when no noise came out. It’s funny to me that he was the awkward one when we were kids. Who knew he’d end up being the hottest of us all. Sometimes in my dreams he is still that little ten year old with scrawny arms, but then he’ll suddenly transform into the beautiful man who held me so tight for so many years. You remember, don’t you? Sometimes I think about how hard it must have been on you. To always be on the sidelines, watching as we fell in love. We didn’t have a care in the world other than ourselves. But you were always there, laughing alongside us, and sinking off into the shadows when the evening was wrapping up and it was time for three to become two. I always tried to ask how the rest of your night went, but I don’t know if I ever really heard the answer. God it’s cheesy, but I could just get so lost in him. I’m sorry if that sometimes meant I forgot about you. My head hurts. Do you think they’ll come soon? I miss you. I miss him. Last week I was at the Hungry Whale. It looks the same. The beat up chairs, the sticky floors. Our initials are still on the back of booth four. And the smell, well nothing’s changed there. Stale beer and fried hash. I could go for some fried hash right now. Betty still works behind the bar. She’s aged a bit, but not as much as we always thought she would by now. A few wrinkles around the eyes, the dark circles still there. Did you know she quit drinking? I don’t know if I could do that, let alone work at a bar and not drink. God we were such assholes to Betty. Why were we such assholes? Sometimes I think about that night where you and Jonah got into it. I can’t remember why. But I remember Betty. I watched you and she watched me. The fists flew hard and Betty stared harder. I remember grabbing a glass of water and asking her what the hell she was looking at. She just stared. My anxiety was so high about you two battling it out that I took it out on her and flung my empty glass of ice just to the right of her cheek. She didn’t flinch. That Betty. She was kind of a badass. I don’t know why she ever let us back in that place. I think I hear voices. I hope they come soon. It’s so dark in here. I can’t feel my feet. I think they must just be cold, but I worry it’s something much worse. Please keep talking to me. I need you. I always needed you, you know. Sometimes I think about when it was just you and me, bombing around the hood on our crappy little bikes. No helmets of course, and plenty of skinned up knees. Remember that day we snuck behind the Levine’s house and hung out by the creek for hours? Man, I must have had a million bug bites when I got home. I can still smell the calamine lotion my mom put all over me. I hated that stuff. I remember how we sat there until the sun set behind the trees, the water dripping over our bare toes. You told me about your uncle and what he did to you. I know you saw the tears in my eyes. Nobody had ever trusted me like that before. I never told a soul, you know, not even Jonah. I wonder if you ever shared with him, but you two were never quite as tight were you? I’m sorry if I had something to do with that. I’m getting tired. Please don’t go. Stay with me until they come. I can’t do this alone. It’s funny how life comes full circle. How after the accident it was back to just you and me. Katie and Adam, partners in fun. Partners in sadness. You never left my side. Not when we were kids. Not when my world revolved around him. Not when I lost him. When we lost him. Have I ever told you how much I love you? Because I do, you know. Not in a Jonah way, but as my best friend. Do you know how lucky we are to have been best friends? You have to find a new best friend. I need to know someone will take care of you. No, I’m not going anywhere, I just need to know. Just for fun. Just to know. Tell me you’ll find someone. My head hurts. I’m so tired. I wish I could lay my head on your shoulder. It always fit so well there. Man, there have been so many times, just you and me. Dreaming. Crying. Being. Sometimes I think our shoulders were physically designed to perfectly hold each other’s heads. I would give anything for one more night sitting by the creek, head on your shoulder. Are you still there? It’s so quiet. I think I’ll just close my eyes for a moment. Just stay. Don’t go. I’ll see you when I wake up. We’ll go get ice cream at Lick’s and then head over and give Betty some crap. Sounds perfect, right? Just a few minutes. I’ll be there in just a few minutes. It’s such a beautiful day. I feel so light. Jonah, my love! It’s so good to see you. I have so much to share.


[content warning: death] Sarah sat in a powder blue wingchair that matched the color of the walls, bouncing the one-month-old Noah on her knee, looking into his scrunched red face. The lamp on the nightstand spilled soft light onto the block-color carpet, and illuminated the white cloth clouds swaying above the crib. She gently fought Noah’s squirming legs and pulled the knitted booties from his feet, revealing pink splotches on his wriggling toes. She tugged the booties off and tossed them onto the floor. A wave of warmth pushed behind her face, but she exaggerated her smile. A tremble threatened her voice as she shushed him. “Everything’s alright, everything’s going to be okay.” Sarah spoke this lie to herself often. She spoke this to herself at the baby shower, watching the doorway as her mother came into view. Sarah’s husband had encouraged the invitation, though the two hadn’t spoken in years. He said that Sarah needed some semblance of a relationship with her mother, or she’d regret it--she would feel better if she could forgive and move on. Maybe her mother knew how she had messed up, and wouldn’t admit it--maybe a grandchild could be her way of apologizing. She could care for this child in a way that she couldn't care for her own, he said. Sarah still didn’t want to invite her. Her mother didn’t deserve a chance at redemption, and it wasn’t fair that she had to be the one to provide the opportunity for it. Her mother couldn't come into this child's life and then disappear. But her arrival at the shower made a sort of promise. It stated that she was here, that she would be here, that she was going to make an effort. The part of Sarah that didn’t distrust this resented the fact that her mother was making an effort--she’s capable of it, but had decided not to for her. Past wrongdoing and resentment went unacknowledged, suppressed into a stiff hello. Friends sat around Sarah’s living room, which was decorated with streamers and balloons, dots of blue against the white walls and light gray settee. Dyed napkins were fanned out on the coffee table, amongst the potluck casseroles and vegetable trays. Her mother brought a store-bought sheet cake, atop it a blank rectangle that was supposed to have something written out in icing. A bare effort, but at least she brought something. It made Sarah nervous for the little gift bag that she carried. It would contain something revealing their relationship to the other guests, revealing how she had only come to the shower to perpetuate her self-believed persona of a good mother, revealing that she didn't truly care. Sarah sat in the circle of her friends and opened their gifts. A sling, a bottle warmer, and diapers--lots of diapers. Her husband even wrapped the stroller that they had picked out and placed it like a secret in the pile. She laughed when she opened it, it was sweet. She left her mother’s gift second to last. If she put it off long enough, maybe it would disappear. But she knew that it wouldn’t disappear, and wanted some buffer to the disappointing endnote. She tried to not make a face while grabbing for it, smoothly moving her hesitant hands to the single piece of crumpled tissue paper spilling out of the top of the bag. 3 baby booties. Obviously handmade. One was pink and wobbly, every row seeming to lose or add a stitch--it was missing a second for the pair. She must have given up on her failed project. And a second pair, off-white, much neater than the ones before it, with soft fuzz standing out from the stitches to nearly double the booties' size. Though they were still too small to imagine fitting onto any person’s feet. # Sarah hadn’t heard anything from her mother for two months after the shower. The baby was a day late, wouldn’t she have known that? Sarah sat at the dining room table while she and her husband prepared dinner, trying to distract herself with conversation, as to not jump at every pinch and ache. She was peeling potatoes while her husband was sautéing veggies, the smell of bell peppers overpowering everything else in the popping pan. Time seemed to be passing slowly because of the stress she was under, he reassured her, but it had only been two months. Maybe Sarah could call her? She could make a decision right now, no longer having to carry the worry of how, if at all, her mother would be involved in the baby’s life. She grabbed a paper towel from the roll on the table to wipe the starch from her hands, slowly wringing each finger, picking under her nails. She called her mother, and as expected, the line continued ringing. The automated voice prompted her to leave a message, and urged her to hurl her phone at the wall, to watch it shatter out in a million shards. Instead, she threw her phone onto the table from an inch away, taking satisfaction in the loud thump. Sarah sat looking at her mother’s name on the screen. She was busy, had somewhere to be, had some imaginary thing to do. Something that was more important. # A week later, she got a call from her sister. Their mother was in hospice. An infection she couldn’t fight off. Sarah should come visit. Sarah was emotionally and physically exhausted, drowning in the undercurrent of the most joy and excitement that was possible to experience. Why was it her responsibility to resolve things, to remind herself of what she had already lost, grieved, and moved on from? Seeing her at the baby shower had been like seeing a ghost, a haunting reminder of what was lost. It had already been lost. And Noah was a week old, she couldn’t leave him--not for someone who had left her. It made Sarah wonder even harder how that was even possible. Had her mother not experienced this? It was a one-day trip, she could manage that. One day. She spoke to her husband, who agreed that she’d regret it if she didn’t go. It was only one day, and he could manage that alone. She changed her jeans, but wore the same shirt and cardigan that she’d already had on. Lazily pulling a hairbrush through her hair, she gave up on the tougher knots, and folded them into a bun. She pulled on her coat, and hollered an ‘I love you’ behind her as she walked out the door. In the driver’s seat, Sarah sat in the noisy silence. What if she got into a car crash? What if she died and left behind Noah--her husband would be okay for a day, but not much longer than that. Even if she was only injured, she couldn’t spend time in the hospital right now. She buckled her seat belt. And what if she picked something up at the hospital, bringing it home to her newborn? His little system wasn’t ready to fight off serious illness--the pitiful coughs of his small voice rung between her ears. She sat, unmoving, grasping the ignition key. She sat there for as long as it would have taken to drive to the hospital, watching worst-case scenarios play out, until convincing herself that she didn’t need to go. To see her dying mother, who never loved her anyway. Who was unresponsive, her sister had said. So, it would only hurt Sarah to see her, and not mean anything to her mother. Sarah couldn’t even tell how this all made her feel, and wasn’t inclined to confront it face-to-face. # After soaking Noah’s feet in a lukewarm tub of dissolved oats, gently patting his feet dry, and rocking him to sleep, Sarah laid him back in his crib. She looked down at the booties tossed on the floor, unsure what to do with them. Noah couldn’t wear them. She drew in a deep breath, and a hot chill shivered out from her ribcage. She huffed, and tried again to fill herself with resolve. On the out-breath, Sarah swooped down and scooped the booties from the floor. The soft fuzz emanating from them scratched at her palms. Maybe she could donate them. She walked out to the living room, put the booties in a Ziploc bag, and tossed them on the coffee table. She would deal with it tomorrow, for now, she needed sleep. Sarah looked over to the few boxes left out from the shower, piled in the corner of the room. From the small gift bag atop them, she plucked out the pitiful pink booty, and nestled it on a shelf between framed wedding pictures and a glass bowl of collected seashells, before going to wash the itch from her hands.


I know I had come across true love once, and I know it because the feeling still burns in my bones. I met him at the age of 4, his name was Elijah. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would see him fade into colorless dust, brushing away to coat the earth and never be found, leaving his family like a shipwreck in a never-ending tide. Elijah, oh how much I could have done for you, how much I could have done to save you. But in my seven year old shoes, I stood paralyzed as menacing arms gripped mine, with a scolding voice that replayed over and over in my head. One day, we were going to stare deep into each-others eyes, telling ourselves it was where we wanted to be for the rest of our lives. We were going to run in our adult shoes, playing tag, until our legs didn't work anymore. That was our true fate, not this. Nothing would have burnt us to the ground. But now I live with a demon always sitting on my shoulder. He likes to laugh at me for what I've done, reminding me of the horrors over again, just as soon as I try to move on. He binds me with chains of silence, he binds me with a closed mind. He draws the man who burnt my clothes, the man who burnt your life. Elijah, I could have saved you. Elijah... One day, I hope you will forgive me. But do you remember our last day together, Elijah? The one where we walked home from school through fields of gold, spinning the earth beneath our feet? Do you remember the sun and how it melted the clouds beneath it, revealing the freckles on our faces? Our hands intertwined unconsciously, as our tiny hearts beat like racing drums. We ran until our laughter knocked us down, and stayed until the sky was coated with marmalade. If only we could have frozen the moment and never moved on. If only we could have both stayed in our seven year old bodies. If only I had never been given the opportunity to grow up alone. I wish our hands stayed intertwined the whole way through. I wish we closed our eyes, and imagined the sun was melting us into the fields of gold. I wish my little legs didn't learn to escape. I wish it was me instead of you, so that you could have run home to your family, letting them know everything was okay. And in this moment, I wish the fires that covered you could dry my tears.


There is a scene, in a film of recent fame, during which our antagonist shines a teasing light on the origin of his malaise (incidentally, an incumbent desire to rule the known world). The madman opens his bruised heart to reveal that his father used to go about making “outrageous claims - like he invented the question mark”; he offers a biography that suggests a man not easily impressed, and perhaps not adept at discerning, even, between impressive and ridiculous. It is left to the viewer to determine how softly one might weigh this revelation against the dark balance of our madman’s considerable accounts. The point, at least for one Dory H. Scott, is that we cannot really ever understand the actual nature of cause and effect. Nor, for that matter, can we be trusted to ascertain the importance of any single action - not even with the advantage of time, or hindsight, as we call it. The human mind, for all its deft and incalculable workings, is easily confused and led astray. Truly, it is a common human propensity that we often attribute significance where it is unnecessary, or undeserved, while happenings of great import, on the other hand, elude our recognition. It is equally true that while we cling to the illusions of self-direction and manifest destiny, our lives are always on the brink of hazard - only a short series of unknowable formulae removed from chaos. Great thinkers of past and present have wrestled with this conundrum; it has been attached countless explication: notably, the American sociologist Robert K. Merton, rising to prominence in the 1950s, developed his theory of unintended consequences, in which he outlined the phenomena of unexpected benefits and unexpected drawbacks. Merton’s work borrowed heavily from the ideas put forth first by the Scotsman Adam Smith, and the later-born, but no less illumined John Locke, in an effort to describe what some now flippantly lament as Murphy’s Law (this notion that when it matters most, when it is absolutely inconvenient, even the best-laid plans will face unforeseen disaster). But it is Merton’s third category of unintended consequences - perverse results - that brings us to Dory H. Scott’s fantastic story. But before we delve into the lurid details of Dory’s final moments, let us take pause to reflect on the man himself, lest we appear curious only of the grim and shocking minutia of his end. For, as it happens, Dory was a man quite like most other men; his existence was defined alternately by careful routine and moderate abandon - the pendulum of most temperaments, really; he had friends, people for whom he cared, and who, in turn, cared for him; he had few enemies, and fewer still of cunning or guile, so he persisted with them, largely untroubled. In short, Dory H. Scott put his proverbial pants on one leg at a time, as they say. In light of the rather common aspects of this biography, the sensible reader might be forgiven for inclining toward doubt regarding the veracity of this particular story’s subject. But let me assure even the most sensible among you, this account is free of invention, and unmarked by exaggeration - both of these being as unnecessary to this story as a hat might be to a goose. It would be a mistake, similarly, to try and attribute moral significance to Dory’s case. More and more this narrator has noticed eruptions of karmic subscription to explain the occurrence of especially good things happening for people, or especially bad things befalling them. This narrator’s own spiritual aesthetic aside, (there is simply no place for it in this story), the recent popularization of ancient Eastern processes - of reciprocity and comeuppance, for example - seem rather too glibly attached to any act, whether wholly breathtaking, utterly menacing, or plainly drab. If, as it turns out, we are being held to account, and in some remote corner of an ethereal office-space the ledger clacks incessantly without mercy or malice, well then, in that case, we will have to reconsider Dory’s case entirely. Until then, however, we must forgo the present urge to see Dory’s shocking finale as anything more or less than a bit of bad luck. On this note, it may interest the curious reader to know that Dory considered himself to be luckier than most. This opinion was afforded considerable sway by enduring personal habits, such as rescuing even the most diminutive of currencies from a fate of utter irrelevancy - see a penny, pick it up...you get the idea. (Incidentally, Dory eschewed contributing his found wealth toward his at large allowance, being of the opinion that one could make available from found tender either the good fortune, figuratively, or the comparatively meagre fortune, literally, but not both. Had he happened to have come across a Brinks truck, abandoned and awaiting his claim, presumably he would have recalibrated this distinction - but he did not, and so amongst Dory’s properties upon his death was a Peek Freans biscuit-tin stuffed with unspent good fortune, in the amount of two hundred and thirty-six dollars, twelve cents.) In the same vein of superstition, finding himself at the business end of a black cat’s path, Dory would announce the innocence of his intentions, and politely wait for the cat to make up its own mind about things. It is a seldom advertised fact about black cats in general that they honour the same right of way protocols that govern traffic roundabouts in most major European city-centres - a fact that escaped Dory’s observance, and a small irony, given the sensational nature of his demise. Nevertheless, the fact remains that Dory was a man of enduring habit - a truth that did little, sadly, to prolong his life, but that perhaps does further pique our appetite for not altogether inadmissible biographical bric-a-brac. For the truth is that well before he succumbed to the great bodily insult that put his name, however briefly, on the lips and in the ears of the rubbernecking crowd, Dory had long laboured under the impression that while things were inarguably happening to him, precious few things were happening because of him. Accordingly, what Dory desired more than anything was a modicum of control. All around him Dory saw grand and important people doing grand and important things - the very fabric of time and space seemed to part obligingly as they moved through the world, and they cast a shimmering ripple in their wake. Buy, sell, keep, change - these, and many more, were the verbs of men and women of action. These people went about saying “look what I have done”, in the off-chance that one had yet to notice. Dory recognized that he was not one of these people. Of course, he ought not to have been so sure - his penultimate act, if nothing else, could easily be construed as a superb triumph of will. Finally, I will take the precursive step of answering to the charges of misdiagnosis and misinformation that will surely come from those readers who find themselves interminably unable to accept the occurrence of spectacular rarities. (Charles Dickens, distinguished and admired as he was, found himself employed in precisely this defense, famously (read: scandalously) rebutting against accusations of sensationalism, and worse. The watchdogs of The Academy charged that the Master of English Literature was pandering to a comparably low denomination, eliciting fear and worry over the possibility that this same manner of death attributed to his character - fictional though he was - might actually constitute a legitimate worry for any one of the good, real people of nineteenth-century England. In support of his creative liberty, Dickens produced a litany of documented cases - the most recent describing an unfortunate ne’er-do-well from County Cork, whose remains were eventually discovered by neighbours, many of whom admitted to having been lured to the dead man’s simple dwelling under the spell of a not at all unpleasant, if heady, aroma. One can only imagine the ghastly reactions, and self-loathing, once the gory truth was laid bare. Were the Great Author alive today, he would surely take no small vindication in the continuing evidence of his fiction.) This is all very interesting, you say, but what of Dory H.Scott? What of his fate? (And if only Dory had grasped the inescapable, true nature of fate, perhaps...well, he didn’t, so it remains for us to recount the grisly consequence.) On a rather ordinary Friday afternoon, having yet shaken the ill smog of another thankless work week that shadowed nearly behind him, Dory found himself at a desperately familiar crossroads. Traffic, both pedestrian and mechanical, moved blithely past him. It seemed to Dory, again, that the people around him were travelling with purpose, while he was simply undertaking the requisite steps that would deliver him from Point A - of which he despaired - to Point B - of which he was coming to despair more and more. This narrator could hypothesize at length (as indeed he has, in private) on the precise complaint that drove Dory to invoke such a drastic measure of rebellion on a day that was very much like any other, but there is little evidence, in fact, of the proverbial, back-breaking straw. Witnesses, of which there were a great many - it being at the peak of commuter delirium - recall that Dory did not respond to the green light (an invitation to exercise the relative safety of the cross-walk that he would certainly have been intimate with after so many years of urban navigation). Some admitted to pushing brusquely past him, even issuing brief but pointed condemnations over their shoulders at the inconvenience of his remaining prone in the midst of their urgent transit. Others, more imaginatively recounted that Dory was murmuring breathlessly in a strange, rapid tongue. Rumours of terrorism quickly gained traction with the eager press; even less savoury, suggestions of satanism and Dory’s clandestine dedication to the Black Arts abounded in the tabloids for weeks afterward. But these reports were specious and self-serving, and only indict a society become insensate to slander and slight. What we do know, is that on the corner of Granville and 12th, precisely five minutes before six o’clock on a warm, but not hot, early evening, Dory H. Scott burst into flames, to the horror and threat of many in his immediate proximity, and I am sad to report, to the inconvenience of still others, who were heard to remark that “some idiot” had lit himself on fire and brought an already irritable homeward hoard to a standstill. It bears noting that of the 81 mobile devices employed during the first frantic moments of Dory’s combustion, no fewer than 79 of these served no greater purpose than to record the terrible spectacle through 1080p hi-definition video capture. A scant two good samaritans thought it more appropriate - the incident seeming of adequate concern to Dory’s welfare, at the very least - that they exercised their capacity to immediately contact the relevant authorities. The social commentary that abounded post-haste missed the mark entirely. Dory had sought control where there was none to be had - an entirely too metaphysical explanation for such a visceral happening. Of course, the suggestion that Dory purposefully willed incineration at his own hand - unless we are quite mistaken about his person - is absurd. Yet the subsequent inquests discerned no accelerants, and precious little informed conjecture surfaced as to the actual cause of this perverse result. This narrator, impartial though he is, cannot help but wonder whether the truth has been hushed from the public record, for surely it speaks to a dramatic occasion of utter extremity - either of defiance or despair - and of a man who lost his place in the world, never to find it back.


The Chief Inspector glared at the man across from him, a ridiculous caricature of a tourist, so perfectly nondescript that he was absurdly easy to describe. And then there was that sweater. For some reason he found it all insulting. “Where is she, Wally?” he snapped. “I haven’t gone by that name in a long time,” the man replied as he sipped some of the steaming liquid from his cup. He sat comfortably and spoke calmly, as though he had invited a squad of police men into his home for a chat. “But it is your name! No matter how you change it you cannot escape your past. Except, you don’t want to. Look at you, the same as ever. She! She is a master of disguise and escape. She eludes even the finest minds in the finest forces in all the world,” the Inspector turned. “But you dress like a buffoon and parade around the world in plain view. You clearly want to be found.” “If you say so, Chief Inspector.” The policeman wheeled back to his captive. “Then let me help you! I can free you from her influence, from her scorn and abuse. What could she possibly see in you except a stooge to leave behind. Just tell me where she is!” The man smiled warmly but did not speak. In the silence, the Chief Inspector heard a sound he had missed over his own ranting and the tumult of the festival crowd only a few blocks away. “A helicopter?” he cried in alarm. His eyes cast about the studio with ignited interest. A disheveled bed. A warm fire. A setting of tea and treats, with one cup in the man’s hands and another on the table, steam rising from the brim. “She’s here!” the Inspector cried. “On the roof! She’s getting away!” “If you hurry, you can still catch her!” The laughter in the man’s voice peeled at the Inspector’s composure as he and his men fumbled the window open and scrambled out into the night and up the fire escape. Too late. By the time they clamored onto the roof an ultralight helicopter was thumping away, a carmine figure propped on the strut, looking back at him. He ran to the edge and clung to it as he watched his quarry escape. For a moment, before the helicopter tipped out of sight, he thought he saw her wave. Biting back a cry of frustration he moved to turn away, but a bright movement on the street below drew his gaze. The man strode out of the entrance, a pack on his back overloaded with ludicrous camping gear in the middle of one of the world’s most urbane cities. “No one stayed to watch him?” he shouted. His men wore expressions of stunned apprehension. “Get after him! He can’t get far!” They surged down the fire escape and into the street. Up ahead, he spotted the tall man’s hat bobbing up and down in the crowd, where it then turned down an alley. “He’s heading for the festival!” The inspector pushed and shoved through the crowd until he finally reached the alley, but he spotted no sign of the man. In a rush, he cajoled his way past drunken cavorters, pissing homeless and rancid garbage and burst into the square. Exactly as he did, he was deafened by the sound of a great gong ringing not more than a few yards from him. Instantly, the air was filled with color. Within seconds the Inspector was covered with rainbow powder. Everyone in the square was gleefully pelting one another with chalk of every hue imaginable. In the crowded furor, no one, even the Inspector and his men, weren’t covered from head to boot. “Spread out and find him!” he barked, his heart already sinking. They would look, but somehow the Inspector knew the man would not be found. In an alley only a few dozen yards away the man once called Wally finished his business and zipped his pants. He checked the collar of his plain brown jacket, turned up to his cheeks against cold and prying eyes. His pack was nearby, propped between the building and a dingy garbage can, but he left it there as he turned and headed for the train station. He’d find another. His hat, though, was tucked into his pocket with the tassel hanging out. Visible, as something always was. Just in case she was watching.


You may see me now and wonder who I am and what I am doing. Well, I wish I knew. My life depends on what I decide here. What am I to do about it? What will I decide? I am about to graduate and I have to choose my path. The decision deadline is approaching quite quickly. Most of my peers are exploring the path that they chose. How could someone have already made up their mind? It seems impossible. Some are looking for the path they like. Not me. Maybe it is a path, with so many options how am I supposed to know which path is mine, and what makes a path? So I am pondering all my life decisions. I will tell you that right now I am sitting on a swing. Some may even laugh because I’m too big to sit on the swing right. I decided I would do as I so pleased, after all the swing was empty when I got here, and I would occupy it until I had to leave. To me, it did not matter what my path looked like. I knew I would probably end up sitting here thinking, pondering, and wondering all day. My path could be anywhere from finding love to cleaning houses. I knew my mother was right when she had told me not to leave it till the last minute, but I had not done this. I had been thinking about it all the time, it even kept me up at night. I had great memories here, mixed with a couple of scars. Other peers are forging their paths with friends. Thinking that the world is full of new adventures, of this I am not so sure. Has not everything interesting been done by someone? Besides, I have been a loner most of my life, so why change now? My luck would run out as soon as I trusted anyone so I avoided trusting relationships. What evidence do I have that it will change anytime soon? Overall if you saw me, you would ridicule me. That is the theme of most people anyway, not that I would blame you. If I saw someone doing what I am, I probably would scoff. Anyway this innocent little girl, Lilly asked what I was doing. I didn’t want to bore her so I told her I was trying to swing high enough to reach heaven. Luckily she did not realize that it was a lie. This intrigued her so she stayed with me. She asked if that was why I didn’t sit on it correctly. I laughed and said I guess so. She said well I came here because my sister is hurting. She asked me if I were to ever reach heaven would I ask God to come and help her sister. I told her I would relay the message. I think that she intrigued me more than she was with me. I watched the little girl run as fast as she could into the woods. She yells to her sister that she shouldn’t worry because God was coming to help. Lilly had complete faith that I would reach the heavens. I thought that this little girl was special, and if she needed help, I would give it to her. I knew I had to run after Lilly to help her. When I caught up with Lilly she was with her sister. Her sister was crying and she was covered in scrapes and bruises. I did not take the time to ask her what had happened to her. It was not important. I knew that in an instant when I could hear her pain. No one should be hurt at all, but no one deserved to be hurt so severely. My heart broke for her, even though I had never met her. I scooped her up and told Lilly to follow me. As I carried her away, I wondered who could have done that to such a sweet innocent girl. I stole a glance at Lilly and realized that she had been hurt too. My heart was shattered. After being examined, the doctors asked if I had hurt them. I was taken back. "I could never", I explained how I had just met Lilly on the playground. The doctors almost did not believe me to be on the swing set, and Lilly rushed in and told the doctors she wanted to say something to me. " Man, heaven must not have been that high! I can not believe how you got all the way up there, talked to God, and came back down and still was able to rush to our rescue!" Her sweetness overcame me, and her innocence moved the doctors. Their parents were going to be investigated. If they were found to be guilty of hurting these poor girls, I would be able to foster them, if I wanted to. I found my path today. Who knew that I would find it when not looking for it? My path was to be these little girls daddy and to vow to always protect them. I know that they have to be provided for, so I am going to work a full-time job, go to school to be a lawyer, and eventually buy a house. Lilly's sister, Jora would prove vital in their battle. She would show strength and determination. She was going to win in her mind no matter the cost. Lilly was by her side. I thought that the girls had admirable personalities, and I was quite proud. Lilly and Jora won, they would never be hurt again. Not as long as I had any say in the matter. I took them home, and we celebrated. I finished law school quickly. I wanted to be helping people. Protecting them. My mother was very proud of me. Before I would know it Jora would be quickly approaching the point of her decision, luckily she knows what she wants to do. I find it is amazing how your path can find you when you can not find it.


Part 1 Jean Davis In a raging swath of flame mankind--those who turned away from the One Truth--burned. This emptiness took hold from inside them suddenly, and they cried out as one--finally one--and their pain and terror of knowing in their last moments that they were too late to change, that they had thrown away their final chance at salvation, struck me as I watched atop a great hill of black and gold. The Visitor was beside me, scorching me with his radiance. Larger than I could comprehend, but who hovered beside me not much taller than I was. A thousand rings of golden flames churned around him--a light brighter and hotter than the sun circling within it. Then the Visitor laughed. The Conference--that’s the name we called it, at least--was sterile and made from hard, concrete angles. A government building. My shoes tapped the waxed slab floor as I walked in, florescent tube lights buzzing above me every few yards, and the walls just white enough I was forced to squint. The man slowing his pace to keep in line with mine was going on about where everything was, pointing down this hallway and that, describing in abundant detail the corridor naming system in place to help visitors not get lost. “Just visitors?” There was a groan in my voice and an even deeper sarcasm. I didn’t have to look at him to know how he squirmed. The CIA must not teach its lackeys how to process sarcastic teenage girls. I snorted, then glanced down a passing hallway--they all looked the exact same and by this point I had no idea where I was or where exactly I was going. I slowed just enough for Oliver to get half a step in front of me. “Your room is located in hallway F,” Oliver said, “along with the other women. The men are all located in hallway B.” “Where do we eat?” Oliver frowned. “Like I said, it’s down this way, then a right, follow hallway B all the way down, take a left, then another right down hallway C, go all the way to the end before taking another left, then--“ “I’ll find it myself.” I toyed with my necklace, twisting it in my fingers. The rose quartz stone was confined in a round aluminum cage, bound by a simple black string around my neck. I squeezed it tightly as the buzz of hundreds of voices rattled my bones. We turned the corner and came to the doors of the Chamber. Oliver pushed open the doors and went in first, and I followed, met with a flare of anxiety at the sea of people before me. The Chamber was like a theater, tables and seats lining well over fifty--maybe even more--rows, gradually working itself down to the far end of the room where a stage rose back up, topped with a long table and even more chairs. The floor was that cheap government carpet, and the walls were carved out like a giant ribcage. For all the chairs the room had, no one was seated. I could tell Oliver was nervous, too, postured a little too straight in his grey suit, as I followed him down the main steps towards the front. All around me I was swallowed by a sea of people--all different races, all speaking different languages, and all very heated. “Oh my God.” My voice was a whisper and drowned in the raging sea of others. I realized in that moment that this was all actually happening--and what this was for had been real. The Visitation. I was halfway down the Chamber when I stopped and actually took a moment to listen. An Indian woman, well dressed, probably in her mid-fifties, stood before a Muslim man whose back was towards me. He yelled and pointed a harsh finger at her, although she took it all with the slightest possible smile, one that could be seen as either confident or arrogant. I was enthralled, before the corners of my vision began to fuzz, and a wave of nausea smacked me like a rock on the coast. I could understand these people. All of them. And they were speaking languages I had no ability to understand. Some weren’t even ones I recognized, coming from cultures I wouldn’t be able to find on a map if I was given all the time in the world to do so. The Indian woman took note of me stumbling into a chair and brushed the man aside. He stormed off as she approached and laid a hand on my shoulder. “All a bit of a shock once you realize it, huh?” I looked up at her. She had a kind face, well-used features, a round nose, and black hair wound in a tight braid reaching over her shoulder and down to her waist. “Yet another gift from the Visitation.” As if triggered by the word, fire and death leaped across my vision. I clenched my eyes closed and groaned, hoping that would relay exactly what I thought about the Visitation’s “gifts”. The woman brushed some of my hair from my face with the care of a mother but with the look of someone who had a lot of pain within herself. Conveniently, a pitcher of water and an empty glass were beside me on the table, like a dozen were on all of the tables. She poured me a glass and handed it to me. “If the nausea persists, come find me later. I’ll give you some medicine.” By the time I opened my eyes from chugging the water, my head brimming with cool clarity, she was gone, melded back into the throng. My heart leaped as I realized Oliver had abandoned me, too. I stood, feeling predatory eyes on me from a group of four men, all with dark skin and white robes native to the Middle East. One of those men I recognized as the one who had been arguing with the Indian woman. His hair was black and coarse beneath a brimless hat matching his outfit. His brow was angular and bound in the middle, beneath resting the black eyes of a killer. I pushed my way further down the Chamber, away from them. Oliver’s voice came from the stage, stiff and rehearsed, and the noise died to a low hum. “As I’m sure everyone has discovered the commonality between you, I’ll get right to it. Everyone here has been Visited. One person from every walk of life, culture, and country from around the world. We simply want to know why. Why not Visit world leaders or religious leaders? Why instead choose doctors, teachers, convicts, and children? “In this completely safe, highly monitored facility, we want you all to compare your stories, your theories, and your pasts to try and find the common links between you. Maybe then we can understand why you were the ones Visited and work to communicate with the Visitors further.” “He forgets to mention the armed goons waiting for us on the outside.” I perked up at the sound of English and an American accent. Close to me stood a black man not much older than me with cornrows, a hard brow, and a clenched jaw. Tattoos covered almost every inch of his skin. He spoke to anyone who’d listen as Oliver continued to drone on. “Be on point when this shit’s over or we may not be making it back home.” “You think they’ll kill us?” “You think when the government’s gotten what they want from us, they won’t? They’ll just let us all waltz outta here and go back home?” No one said anything else after that, but just turned their focus back to Oliver and listened with distraught expressions--the kind of look that makes men dangerous, like they’re caged animals looking for an escape and will kill to get it. I continued to walk down the steps, listening to Oliver. He was rambling on about the cafeteria schedule and how the Chamber would always be opened as a central place of discourse and how we were highly encouraged to seek each other out and learn things about everyone so we could “solve this puzzle together”, although we were the ones who were stuck here. “It is a great show of friendship and faith that we have delegates here from all around the world,” he continued. “Please keep that in mind and show each other respect.” I found myself frowning at his tone and word choice. A glance at those immediately surrounding me revealed that only some had the same reaction, the majority of the delegates taking his words at face value. His subtext gave a whole other message; watch your back, because not all of us are here for the same reason. It took me forty-five minutes before I found my room. The plaque on my door read “Jean Davis”, so everyone and their brother would know exactly who they’d find inside. That made me uneasy. Hundreds of strangers knew exactly where I slept. “Doctors, teachers, convicts, and children.” I wondered if Oliver was referring to me with that last remark. I hadn’t seen any children since I arrived. Convicts, though... I thought back to the man with a killer’s eyes and those who surrounded him. How their eyes clawed at my clothes, praying to their god to get me alone. A trembling shudder and the feeling of being watched made me slam the door and lock it behind me, leaving me in a humming white light. It only took me two steps to bump my bed, still staring at the door, clutching my necklace. My knuckles were white as I sat on the bed’s edge and slowly unlaced my high-tops. My room was more of a closet with a bed, nightstand, and a small dresser. The bathroom was communal and located a few doors down. Easing myself further into bed, I tried to fall asleep but found myself staring at the sliver of light bursting in from underneath the door. Only a few times did shadows move across it, breaking the streak before moving on, opening and closing doors of their own further down the hall. Fire raged in my vision, and I opened my eyes to find the ceiling, but no Visitor. My grip around my necklace was so tight it hurt. I didn’t want to be Visited again. It was haunting and painful, forcing thoughts into my head that I wanted nothing to do with. I was perfectly fine with how I was and needed no one or nothing else. That was a lie, and it stung as soon as I thought it. I cursed the Visitor. He was the one who made me this way, taking away the freedom of my own thoughts and forcing me to constantly confront the lies I told myself. But again, I knew that was a lie. The Visitor had no control over how I had been made. Only one did. The One. I found myself drifting off again into a black sleep, and after a momentary struggle, I let it take me. My dad stood before me, a handsome man in his mid-thirties with thick stubble, short black hair, dripping a puddle of water onto the floor and clutching a towel around his waist. My backpack was on the floor, today’s homework spilled out. I stared at him, trembling as he tried to explain himself, the woman dressing hurriedly behind him. A year later, I could feel my mom’s eyes on me, scolding me with silence, then averting when I looked at her. She hadn’t spoken to me for three days since I had finally told her that her husband was a traitor. I suddenly found myself alone, sitting on the floor, back to the couch, numbing my mind with the fluttering glow of the TV. She was out somewhere--she never told me where--and I was home. The house was dark. It was the way I liked it when I was alone. I had never been afraid of the dark but found solace in it; I found that I could melt into the darkness and become nothing. Lose the skin of Jean Davis and walk naked and incorporeal. It would help with some of the pain, some of the guilt--both for not telling her sooner and telling her at all. But not all of it would leave with my body as I strode high through the blackness, toes sinking into the carpet. A lot of it would remain clung to me, digging claws into my back and not letting me go. Tonight was the night that would change. Tonight was the night that would end. I sank slowly into the bathtub, cringing as the water burned, but continuing down until I was submerged to my throat. Even that pain was nothing to the tightness in my chest, my constant shame. I thought back to earlier that evening when I found my mom sitting numb, sucking a cigarette and clutching a wine glass, only a thin maroon ring remaining inside. “Mom?” I was stupid to talk to her when she was like that, but I wanted to tell her the amazing fucking news. Her head tilted my way to let me know she was listening. “I’m going to be a sister.” I thought maybe I should’ve left a note, but I didn’t think anyone would care to read it. Mom wouldn’t. She’d probably laugh and go have another drink. Misery was her solace now, and she’d want to keep that comfort. And dad... He had a new family now. There was no need for me. He was married to someone younger and prettier, someone still enchanted by his Sauvé, and would soon have a son--the one he always wanted--and would be happy. He wanted me to be happy, too. Happy for him and his new family. He called me and told me the news and I heard genuine excitement in his voice, the kind that was always foreign to me. In a messed-up kind of way, I did feel happy for him. Maybe he wouldn’t be so disappointed anymore, with me and with mom. Maybe now he had what he had always wanted and wouldn’t ruin this family, too. I pictured this new kid--my little brother--and my dad playing catch and riding bikes and laughing and hoped that he would be a good dad to him. That this kid wouldn’t turn out like me. A failure. Tears streaked my cheeks and my pillow was soaked through. It took me twenty minutes to stop hyperventilating enough to get dressed and open my door to the blaring light of the hallway. A dull throb beat above my left eye as I brushed my teeth, and I wondered if that woman from yesterday was around. I didn’t know her name, so I had no idea which door to knock on. I decided to just bite through it and make my way to the cafeteria. I blinked back one last splash of water, watching beads run down my face like tears. I had bags under my eyes and my hair was a mess. I felt out of place, out of my skin, like I shouldn’t be here, like I shouldn’t be anywhere. There was this strong pull to go home, but not my home. It was an eternal place, somewhere I had never been nor dreamed of going. I wiped off my face, ran my hands through my hair, fluffing it up in a more kempt way, then left the bathroom. Instinctively I glanced down the hall before turning towards the direction of the cafeteria and stopped. I turned back to find a young Asian man coming from one of the bedrooms about five yards away. I frowned, he spotted me, and I got an unnerving urge to turn and run. He stared at me for a moment too long, then turned and walked the other direction, disappearing around a corner. Before I knew what I was doing, my legs took me to the room the man had come from. The plaque read “Naya Ravel”, the door was unlocked, and the room itself was empty. Unlike the movies, it wasn’t ransacked, either. It was pristine, as if nothing had been touched at all, and I wondered what he could’ve been doing here. I stood in the midst of a cafeteria trembling with voices and motion, my tray light with a couple pieces of toast, a cup of oatmeal, and a coffee. I scanned the room, the tables, and those sitting at them. My throat was dry, and my head was pounding. I’d just go back to my room. Turning towards the exit, I was met by the Indian woman’s eyes on me. She sat at a table by herself, smiled, and waved me over. I approached reluctantly. “Feeling better?” “A little.” I remained standing at the edge of the table, not committing myself to sitting. The woman arched a brow at that, then offered me the seat. “I promise I don’t bite. I’m Dr. Naya Ravel.” The bench was plastic and uncomfortable as I sat across from Naya. Did I tell her about the man I saw coming from her room? Did she know? What would she do? What did she have to hide? Oliver’s hidden message to the delegates played back in my head. “Watch your back because not all of us are here for the same reason.” A gasp caught in my throat as the Visitor appeared suddenly behind her, churning its rings in a metallic screech, the ball of light upon me like a great eye, seeing my thoughts, my shame, my longing. I screamed.


The fire in winter I wish you tasted as good as you smelled. You decive me every time i press my lips against you and out comes the burning sensation of coal and fire. Bitterness. The taste of actual dirt. As if someone just put soil in my cup and mixed it with water. Coffee. I have always loved the smell of coffee but i never knew what to do with it. I never knew the secret method to make this fantastic smell taste as good as i want it too. My earliest memory of coffee was waking up early morning and seeing my dad make a cup of coffee before work. He was a grizzly trucker man who loved the bitterness of just black coffee. He never added anything to it and the smell filled up the kitchen. It was beautiful and mocked me for never consuming it. I asked my dad for a taste and he laughed because he knew i would not enjoy it. I guess he knows it can taste better but bitter was his choice. When i tried it for the first time, my tounge was on fire and my mouth tasted like i ate a chunk of dirt. This was so confusing to me. I couldn't comprehend how something that smells so good can taste so bad. In a way i did like the deception because it was a hard feeling to express. I knew it could be possible to like this, i thought i wasn't old enough yet so i just enjoyed the smell and never bothered to try it again. My second experience with coffee was on a cold saturday. I was staying with some family in an R.V out of town. There was six of us in that mobile home and no one bothered to check the weather for that weekend. When i woke up my parents have already showered so i decided to jump in real quick. I didn't stay too long because i knew i would just get cold again after so the false sense of warmth i felt from the water was short felt. When i got dressed and opened the bathroom door. My nose was greeted with a familiar smell. The aroma of heavens delight was waiting for me on the counter near the sink. My cousin had went to a corner store near us and grabbed a coffee for us all. I held onto it just to make my hands warm. I studied my cousin as she opened the lid of her cup and added sugar and cream. Two packets of sugar and two cups of cream. I fallowed her recipe exactly and stirred it all together. I half expected it to taste the same as when i was a kid but when i drank. My insides were starting to warm up and i stopped shaking from the cold. This was better then what i ever could have imagined. It was love in a cup and i was floating. All six of us just chatted for the next hour even after our drinks went dry. My breath had a funny taste and i imagine this is what people smell from another coffee drinkers mouth. I liked it.