A/N: inspired by Your room is still pink. Or purple, as your father says. He says he didn't want a “stereotypical” color for you, but I think he just wanted to confuse the relatives. You should’ve seen his face when nobody knew what to guess. Today the windows are open and the sky is finally clear. I always liked this rocking chair. So your father helped me put it here. This spot, he insisted, had the perfect view. And he’s right, you know. Your room doesn’t have any bookshelves because we were worried they’d fall. As it turned out, you didn't leave many books behind. Stacked on the dresser are the ones I read to you. When I read out loud, I always wondered if you were listening. There was one about a mouse and a cookie. Another one was about the boy whose bedroom became a forest. He made friends with those wild things in that jungle. Do you remember them? On the corner of the table are my own books. I read here too. Sitting on the rocking chair, I’d read to you first. But since I never felt like leaving, I ended up bringing my books too. There’s something calming about this room. Next to the books are the CDs I'd play. Your father said they'd help you get smarter. One hour a day, Mozart, Beethoven, and Haydn took turns performing. Sometimes I think you kicked to the beat. Could you hear them? Or was that just my wishful thinking? These shoes my mother knit for you are still in the dresser drawers. There are little yellow ones with flowers on top and bright red ones lined with white. Your grandmother is amazing, right? She even made you a couple stuffed animals. I tried to learn too. Really. But the purple shoe I knit looked more like a mitten. And if I stand up, I'll see the clothes you left. I'm still keeping them you know. Small white shirts that fit nobody else, little grey pajamas gathering dust. Look, that tiger onesie is still here too! The colors are bright and the cloth is soft. Would you have liked it? Your bed is still by the door. We wanted to check on you as often as we could. But all that's left is the thin green blanket folded under your pillow. There's dust here too - I guess these sheets should really be put away. From the corner of my eye, I see the photo album on the floor. I must have left it there last time I visited. This picture here wasn't too many months ago. I remember how excited we were for you. How nice would it be if you'd left a picture too. I run my hand along the crib you never used and take in the room you left behind. But today I came to say goodbye. There are boxes to fill and rooms to clean. I'll keep your slippers and your books. The brand new toys will go on top. And to fill in the rest, I'll use your blanket. The crib, however, goes to someone new. I hope that's okay with you. I'll take a break and look outside. Even the birds are building their nests. Your father and I are simply doing the same. He'll help me seal this plain brown box. Sealing away the memories you never had. We'll lift it together - it'll be lighter once we're moving. After one last look around, we'll take it out the door. Then we'll drive towards the clear blue sky. Away from the birds and away from the house. Away from the room *we* left behind.


“I killed you! I killed you! How are you still alive!” Herbert’s hand trembled as he gripped the mouse, the glow of the arcade screen made everything in the room disappear. He was alone with the game and could do or say anything in that anonymity. “These bullet-to-target ratios are whack. Can’t believe they released this as beta.” In the game he was having difficulty tracking his targets. The tracker mouse ball was something he had to get used to but the gaming cabinet was a steal. It wasn’t fair that the other players had boosters. Metal War had a tendency to overvalue and reward their top players. Maybe if he could get followers on his streams, he’d have the sweet in-game gear, boosters, and maybe a hot gamer girlfriend. He took his headphones off in a fit of rage and looked at the scoreboard. “4-31” read the kill-verses-death count. The keyboard in the gaming cabinet was still dusty. He probably should’ve have cleaned it after Darius dropped it off. Who knows where he got the thing? But the lack of kills streaks wasn’t from the lack of responsiveness. Herbert squirmed in the attached gaming chair when the idea of another defeat made his heart race. Nothing was ever fair. His assault character loaded into the match, appearing on screen as a commando with two submachine guns. He pressed the keys on the built-in keyboard and eagerly moved the character to a corner where he hid in a known kill spot. “Yo, Herb, where you at? We’re getting mowed down over here.” Shawn was with the rest of his squad, flanking the enemies. Shawn had also played hooky today. Moving up with the boosted gamers out there was suicide, especially when probably have aim-bots turned on. “Standby, checking gear.” Cheating had always ruined games but in this situation, he didn’t see a way out. The GHOST key was sitting in the upper right of the keyboard, egging him on to press it. The first time he used it he won 7 rounds in a row. The other players never even noticed. He peaked around the corner and was nearly received a headshot by a 50 BMG round. The key was right there. He could just turn it off for this one match. His friend wouldn’t give a crap. He pressed the GHOST key; the engineer of the gaming cabinet must’ve been a genius. The cabinet glowed red with small LEDs when it turned on. Inside the game his character vanished, the only visible sign that remained were the foot prints in the dirt. With a less strained eye he turned the corner and shot the sniper through the head. Running along an alley he was flanked by another enemy who ran past him unnoticed. Herbert changed to a knife and quickly backstabbed, moving his kill count to 6. In another room he found two enemy squad mates shooting through a window. His frag grenade awarded him two more kills. “Someone’s hacking!” Came a voice over his headphones. It was someone from his team. He quickly pressed the GHOST key again and removed the cloaking hack. The letters were worn. Whoever had this before used it a lot. As soon as he turned it off, he got shot from behind. When the chatter died down about a possible hacker, he turned it on again, getting several more kills. He had to retain a presence in the game and to his squad mates so he pressed the key when most opportune, spamming the button like he would any other command. When the match was done, he breathed a sigh of relief, seeing the winning score. But when he turned the game off, palms sweating, he couldn’t see his hands! He put his wrists to the screen but nothing appeared. Closing his eyes, he squeezed his fists together. The light must be playing a trick. When he got up and turned the light on his whole body was missing. Even his clothes were invisible. Back in the game machine he pressed everything, even the GHOST button, but he still couldn’t see himself. After checking every mirror in his mom’s apartment, he went downstairs. His mom was sitting on the couch. He was almost glad when she didn’t notice him. It was nice to just see her without a mean look on her face. She had never checked on him before, why would it matter if he was gone? Herbert snuck out the back door, stepping on the same floor board as to not make a sound. The other guys wouldn’t believe he was invisible. Who could believe him? Could they hear him? He put his hands in his sweater pockets, walking at a scattered pace, deciding what to do with his new found power. It didn’t matter to him that he might be like this forever or that one day even his essence might evaporate completely. Instead he instantly thought about what Jenn was doing right now. The school would be on a lunch break and if he walked there, he could get there before the last class ended. Darius and Eric would flip. He arrived when the afternoon class bell rang. He watched as they entered their respective rooms and abandoned the hall. No one would see him open the double doors, or walk toward the gym, or even sneak into the girl’s locker room. He made sure he opened the door slowly, hearing several girls inside. His heart raced as if he was on a sneaking mission in Metal War. The girls were always so cruel to him, except for one. What was the harm anyways? He made it around the brick corner and saw them talking in a group around the lockers. They had already finished dressing but he could still feel his pulse. “Whatever, he’s not that cute anyways. Now Billy, he’s got a cute butt.” Andrea was talking. Her voice made him cringe. Jenn was sitting quietly, putting on her shoes, looking as sweet even with gym clothes on. Even when he was invisible, he found it hard to approach her. “You’re so wrong,” Said Jill, “it’s not always about looks.” “Oh yeah? Who do you like?” Retorted Andrea. Jill thought for a moment. “John seems like a good guy but I wouldn’t date him.” “What about Ben?” Said another girl. This time Jenn chimed in, “Ugh, he’s too quiet. Creepy.” “I think that one boy likes you. Herbert.” Laughed Andrea. “What a stupid name.” Jenn turned with a look of disgust. “I’m not into black guys. I don’t know what it is.” The other girls smiled with wide-mouthed grins. His stomach sank. Andrea was the one to respond with a chuckle, “Racist!” “No, no” she waved her hands, “he’s just not my type.” He closed his eyes in defeat. He had often wondered about what girls talked about behind closed doors but he didn’t expect his crush to feel this way, or even say it out loud. She had always been so kind. Now he wasn’t sure about anything anymore. His eyes became glassy. They started talking about their personal preferences for boys, attempting to justify Jenn’s aversion. By now he should have been used to this kind of bigotry in high school, with the amount of micro-aggressions and hatred, but this was too much to handle. The excitement he had experienced when he entered the school had faded, much like his own physical appearance. As he left the locker room, he heard them making sounds of revulsion. He had dreams of going up to her, of asking her out, of being with her but he knew now that no matter what he did he would never be good enough. Other white boys would get to touch her, hold her, somebody else would get to have her. Herbert walked to the science room; the door was open. Darius and Eric would know what to do. They were sitting there laughing and fist bumping. The teacher was sitting at the back, trying to be ignored. He cautiously walked and stood behind them, trying not to rub against anything. They were talking about gaming. “That lag is ruining my kills. It’s stupid bad.” Said Darius loudly. “At least I’m not tripping like what’s-his-face.” Eric was twirling his pen from the desk behind. “Herb, man, that’s Herb.” They had practically already forgotten about him. “He’s always wearing those beat up kicks. He’s always cheating, finding someway to be relevant to the team. He’s garbage.” Herbert stood behind the two and slunk back behind a shelf. He couldn’t trust them to save him. He’d have to save himself. This wasn’t a super power, it was darkness, complete and utter darkness. They were laughing about his hair when he decided he had enough. There was no one he could turn to. He left the school and walked toward the intersection. Maybe he could rob a bank to at least ease some of the pain he felt. The one near Prosper Street had revolving doors, like the ones he played in with his friend’s when they were younger. Did they really think of him as trash? With his head bent and his ego crushed he placed his hands in his pockets. Even with the thought of stealing money nothing snapped him out of it. Prosper Street was another block away. He stepped into the intersection, watching the cracks in the asphalt, as black as coal. When he got back to school, he would make their lives a living hell, ruining test grades and pranking them in the bathroom. His fists were balled up when a semi-truck came barreling down the four-lane road. He put his invisible hands out but suddenly realized he had made a grave mistake.


He hadn’t intended on remembering the date on which they had been partnered together at work, it had just happened, implanted itself on the inside of his skull awaiting his perusal whenever he desired to peruse. If asked why he remembered it so clearly, he would answer with one of the three explanations he had crafted that he deemed nonsuspicious, the favourite of which was that there was a good game on that day that he had watched at the pub in the evening. This was the favourite story because it was true, and the safest way to tell a lie is to make it as true as possible, anyone could tell you that. He would just leave out the part where he remembered that trip to the pub so well because it was the first time he could convince his new shadow to come along with him. He had flown through six months of training utilising the tough physical regime to put off the even tougher conversations he was going to have with himself about morals as soon as his thoughts weren’t all focused on the pain in his muscles. Gaining a partner’s back to watch at shy on every waking moment was not high on his list of priorities, not that he had a choice. It was like someone buying you a puppy for Christmas - many yellow stickers in car windows appeared in his mind -, he was not confident enough in his abilities to trust that he could look after this puppy, and he most certainly hadn’t asked for one. This one wasn’t even wrapped in bows, it was grumpy and on the defensive and most certainly not endearing. From what he had been told about him, he knew he had only been recruited a half a year before he himself had. Which meant he had a whole extra six months of working the streets under his belt, he had experience and he knew the rest of the team and he was well within his right to be standing next to him in that office with an air of distaste. As if he had much better places to be and he had to be there three minutes ago. He had been working alone so far, put on the back bench to wait for someone suitable to be identified and snapped up for the purpose of working with him. Now the time had come for the both of them to become the one thing they had been avoiding, a partnership. And neither were happy. First on the list was a stakeout and they struggled to imagine a worse situation. They had left the building both deciding whether they should be the one to volunteer to drive or whether they should just follow their new partner. An almost inhuman understanding of each other was expected of them, they had to work together like two obscenely well-oiled cogs in an equally obscenely well-oiled machine. Perhaps it was best to start at it from the very beginning, following each other around without question, in a ‘fake it till you make it’ sense. So that he did, followed the other into a long, hot morning sat in a car together, trying to make conversation with a man he had met five minutes ago and whose life had been elegantly placed in his hands in a business-like manner. No returns and only to be relieved of when it died. A puppy for Christmas. Although a puppy was a great inconvenience, they had at least had time to prepare for this one rather than being lumped with it as a surprise from underneath a tree. Time had been had to metaphorically buy water bowls and stock up on dog toys and strange smelling food. Now was the time to introduce yourself, palms up to show you’re not a threat and let them sniff your ankles. Perhaps that was going a bit far. To compromise, he had tried to smile at the right moments, judging based off of his whole morning of experience as to whether the other man was really making a joke, or just commenting on what he could see. He figured it couldn’t hurt to smile at the wrong times too. Better than staring straight ahead and straight faced at a joke. That would not set them off on the right foot at all. By lunchtime, which he discovered his new partner thought it always was, they had stopped resolutely looking at everything else, and now allowed themselves to glance with large intervals at the other man. Was he smiling right now? Was he actually frowning, did he just go to say something and then stop himself? What was he thinking? What he was thinking probably had something to do with the fact that it really was undeniably lunchtime now. And that meant talking to each other and making arrangements, who was going to do what. He decided he would break the silence, show that, contrary to his fake it till you make it technique of following him around like a scared lamb, he could also take initiative. He knew what he was doing. So he collected lunch orders and he made his way confidently and slowly towards a fish and chips van parked in a gravel car park on the corner of the road. Now was not the time to worry about placing food orders, now was the time to do it without thinking and to focus all his attention on making his body language the very definition of relaxed. Expertly ordered fish and chips were eaten in a car that now smelt of grease and that was full of thoughts on how they should be eating, and then whether evaluating one's own eating habits to try to force some sort of comradery was going a bit too far again. But amongst the newspapers and sharing of chips, and although there was no relaxation yet, no letting down of the walls, there was acceptance. And now, years in the future, he can look back on that first summer with appreciation for what it really was. The introduction to his favourite song.


It is curious that large places can become small after years of indifferent familiarity. Take this house. I know each crack in the floorboards that run along the living room’s western wall. There is a small hole in the fireplace tile. When I sit just so in the felt armoire that Denise took from her aunt’s home after that unfortunate accident, I can make out tiny pulses of smoke, which unfortunately waft into the house. Rather than patch the hole, Denise forbade me to use the fireplace. When we moved in it felt so grand. But any space can become small, if given enough time. Two people can model their own interiority after the walls that surround them, forgetting the world outside. Forgetting all that had happened. On Monday morning I woke alone in a lopsided bed. Denise’s half was cold. In the kitchen I put five scoops of coffee and two cups of water into the coffee maker. Then I poured the coffee back in the can and started all over, straining to calculate smaller portions that had once been familiar but that were now overridden with years of muscle memory induced by cohabitation. I was instinctually aware of the curious strangeness that accompanied this seemingly mundane change to my pattern. Denise had never traveled for work before. We had never spent a night apart in seventeen years, three months, and twenty-two days. Now a mid-career job change took her to a weeklong conference in Tucson, leaving the house feeling empty. Carl would be landing in a couple hours. He called a month ago, saying he would be in town the very week that Denise was traveling. It was understood that he was asking to use the guest bedroom. Denise had been at the grocery store when he called. The prior evening we had been sitting at the dinner table when she told me that she would be going out of town for a week. She talked about the conference and her new colleagues and the aquarium they were going to visit while she was there and how it really wasn’t that uncommon to have to travel for work one or two times per year. I went outside to pull weeds and let my pasta carbonara go cold. I decided not to tell her about Carl visiting. “It’s good to see you,” Carl said while I loaded his bags into the trunk. He looked curiously at the interior of the trunk, slightly concerned with what he saw. “Is everything okay?” I said. “Yes, of course.” He let the smile return to his face, as if he hadn’t noticed anything. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” “I guess it has been. What brings you here this time?” But I knew the answer. “Just work.” He gave me a knowing grin. I only smiled back with plain, unstated understanding. We don’t discuss his work anymore. Carl used to visit a lot. When we first bought the house he could be counted on for regular seasonal appearances, ringing in each equinox around the dining room table where Denise, ever the oblivious host, regaled Carl, ever the charming houseguest, with hours-long renditions of her gardening adventures. Carl lived in a city and hadn’t the slightest clue about gardening. Spade or sprinkler, it was all the same to him. But he humored her nonetheless and for that alone he was welcome whenever he found himself in town. I don’t recall who initiated the descent from friends to acquaintances, but it happened. The first night we had takeout and after, beers in the living room. Carl picked at the paper label on his bottle. I saw him peel off a small piece and put it between the couch cushions. I wasn’t sure what to say. My mind was somewhere far. I excused myself to go to bed. In bed I though back on everything Carl and I had left unaddressed over the years. I should have put it all out in the open long ago. Denise too. She seemed to have found her avoidance mechanism with the new job. But me? I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, unable to fall asleep and unwilling to stop thinking about the series of events that had put Denise and me in this situation. I thought of how different it was before I had met Carl and before I had introduced him to Denise. I thought about how suddenly everything had changed when we learned about Carl’s job. Denise always said it shows shallowness of intellect to discuss only work. I didn’t see it that way. But after I met Carl, I wish I had come around to Denise’s perspective sooner. Things began moving faster than we could anticipate. When we eventually came up for air we bought the house. We started gardening. Then everything just...settled. Carl never pushed the subject. But we knew it was there, always lurking beneath the surface during his visits, liable to be brought up at any time during any one of our dusty conversations around the dinner table. Still unable to sleep, I walked downstairs and saw that Carl had lit the fireplace. The flames threw shadows that made the furniture look grotesque and worn. The whole room drooped under the weight of the flames. “Still up?” I asked. “I guess I’ve become a night owl in the last few years.” “We don’t normally light the fireplace. Denise has a thing about the smoke.” “Tell you what,” he said, “I won’t tell Denise you were lighting fires if you join me for a game.” I laughed. He gestured to the chessboard and then pulled up the second armchair. “What Denise doesn’t know...” “Just one game,” I said. “And then no more fires this week. Seriously.” “That’s the ticket! Black or white?” “You choose.” We started playing and things suddenly felt normal. The room became cozy. The tension between us dissipated, carried up the chimney and out into the world. Carl told me about a woman he’d been seeing. I filled him in on the latest book I had read. He mentioned his volunteering work. Suddenly it felt easy to be his friend. Carl pulled a small silver box from his pocket. It was flat and had a clasp on the front. He flicked it open and placed it on the table. “Smoke?” he asked. “Oh man,” I said, staring at the line of fat joints in the box, “I haven’t done that in a long time.” “So how about tonight?” “Yeah right. Denise would...” “Denise isn’t here.” “I know, but...” “...but,” he said, “Denise is at a conference. You can make choices for yourself.” He grinned that Cheshire cat grin; the same one he’d greeted me with at the airport when he had attempted to get me to ask about his work. “This feels like middle school when Travis Wilson made me drink wine coolers behind the trash cans after fourth period.” He laughed and pulled a joint out of the box. “C’mon, what do you say?” I couldn’t believe I was doing this. Smoking a joint in my living room after such a juvenile attempt at peer pressure. But after the first drag, the only thing that I found shocking was that I hadn't done it sooner. And a lot of other things. Carl and I kept chatting and, ostensibly, playing chess. But all I could think about was how Denise was away at her conference and how much damn gardening I’d done over the years. With each additional toke on the joint I sunk deeper into a mixed up state, half joking around with Carl, carefree as possible, and half chewing on distinct wistfulness that was exacerbated by the walls of a house that I had seen too much of. # The next morning I stumbled into the kitchen like a tired, old bloodhound. Though I could barely open my eyes, the scent of coffee and fried eggs was unmistakable. “Coffee?” Carl asked. “Sure. Thank you.” “Thanks for the game last night. I haven’t had a challenge in a while.” “The only thing I did was move pieces around the board. I could barely keep track of whose turn it was, let alone strategy.” “Well, it didn’t show. You’ve still got it.” We sipped our coffee and ate the eggs. I toasted bread and pulled out a fresh orange marmalade that Denise had made. The coffee was unfamiliar, rich, strong, something Carl brought with him. It tasted nothing like the commodity beans Denise and I bought in bulk. We ate in silence. I dipped my toast in the egg yolk. Carl sprinkled salt over his plate and then dabbed at it with a paper towel after having poured too much. There was a screw lease on the table leg beneath me. I twisted it tight with my hand. “I’m going into the city today for meetings,” Carl said suddenly. “I’ll see you tonight then.” “Sure. We’ll have dinner. Anything you want me to pick up on the way back?” “No, I’ve got it covered.” “You know,” he said, “you could come with me.” “With you?” “To the city. I want you to come tag along to my meetings.” Carl looked down and started playing with his napkin. The air in the kitchen felt heavy, glutted with the weight of our intertwined history. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said. I stood to clear the dishes. Carl looked up from his napkin and looked me directly in the eyes. “Where’s Denise?” “She’s in Tucson.” “I see.” “It’s just a conference.” “When is she coming back?” “Saturday.” “Right” “What’s gotten into you?” “What’s her flight number?” “Carl...” “Forget it,” he said, and stood up with his plate in hand, “I’ll be back tonight around six for dinner.” I heard him open the front door and walk down the steps. From my seat I noticed a small crack in the wall left of the calendar. Because of my indexical knowledge of every detail of my home, I knew that it must have appeared overnight. Everything became hazy. Suddenly, the house felt like a foreign land, and I was a stranger within its borders. # Carl didn’t come home for dinner that night. I moved cold butternut squash and lamb chops to a glass container and put them in the refrigerator and went to bed. I struggled to fall asleep, my mind a warren of what ifs and if onlys as I flipped through Carl’s proposition that I join him during his meetings. Occasionally I drifted into the thin fugue state that separates wakefulness from the unconscious; that fitful place in between where absurdity and reality blend in fluid matrimony. Knocking at the front door drew me back to awareness. “Sorry if you were asleep,” Carl said. “I forgot to bring my key with me this morning.” “You could have called,” I said. “I saved you some dinner. It’s in the refrigerator.” I turned toward the staircase. “I left my phone too. I promise it wasn’t intentional.” I looked at the small wooden bowl on the table by the door and saw the key and the phone. Perhaps it really was nothing. But I know what happens when Carl is at work. But if I paused for a moment and considered all available evidence it certainly appeared to support his story. He wasn’t lying, but he was soaked in rainwater. “It’s no problem. Come inside.” I brought him a towel and lit the fireplace. “What kept you late?” “C’mon...” “I want to know.” “But you already do. You know how these things go.” “I want to hear details.” “No you don’t. Look around you. Denise is happy here. What interest could you possibly have in resurrecting all of that?” “You were the one who invited me to join you downtown for meetings today.” “I know. I shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid and I apologize. In fact, I think you should just leave things the way they are. You have a good life .” “Sometimes I don’t know.” “What are you talking about? Don’t say things like that.” “Denise isn’t happy. Her new job, this trip, it’s all...just...” I paused and looked at the fire. Carl was picking at his beer label again, waiting for me to continue. When I didn’t, he took another sip of sip. “Coming back to work wouldn’t make things better,” he said. “It’s kind of like being the chauffeur to a millionaire. You get to see the lifestyle, but it’s not actually yours.” “But at least you get a taste of it. Isn’t that perspective useful? Doesn’t it keep you...I don’t know...alive?” “You and I are different. This is all I know. I don’t have a family. I don’t have a wife. I don’t think I could. I’ve gotten myself in too deep. You’re lucky, you just don’t know it.” “Maybe,” I said. But I didn’t believe it. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I had made up my mind about Denise and Carl and the garden and the whole damned situation. I excused myself and went to bed. This time, dreamless. # The next morning I didn’t bother waking up to meet Carl. I couldn’t bother seeing him and being reminded of it all. I waited until I heard him close the front door before going downstairs. “Damnit! Start already!” I looked out the window and saw him swearing and trying to force the ignition on his rental car. The vehicle sputtered. Dead battery. Carl came back inside, looking flustered. I pulled my beater from the garage, but the battery was indifferent to Carl’s schedule. “Just my luck,” he said. “How easy is it to get a cab here?” “You’d be better off walking. You’ll get downtown faster than a cabbie could find his way here.” “I hate to ask this...” But ask he did. Albeit with a genuine apology wallpapered to his face. We transferred his things from the rental to the trunk. Once again, he lingered when I opened the trunk. He arranged his things. Some items looked familiar, but a lot had changed. We drove for an hour in virtual silence. As green faded to concrete I felt an acute sense of loss, of something left behind. But as I looked ahead at the city before me, this feeling was replaced with tremendous vigor. “We’re close,” said Carl. “You can drop me at this corner.” “That’s okay,” I said. “I can take you all the way.” “You’re sure you’re okay with this? I really don’t mind walking.” “I know. It’s not a big deal.” I turned right into an alley, which opened up into an internal courtyard between the dilapidated backsides of several high rise buildings. A a couple dozen people were standing about. They seemed to cover every possible intersection of life. Young, old, different races, different genders. Designer handbags and rags. Some with the vestments of religion. No one spoke, no one moved, and they each had found a unique spot on which to affix isolated gazes. When Carl stepped out they lifted their heads and locked their eyes on him. They were transfixed. Each seemed to lean forward, drawn to Carl like flowers pulling themselves toward distant sunlight. Carl nodded politely and then unloaded his material from the trunk. The courtyard was bare, save a single black door. He placed his things just beyond the dark periphery of the doorway. “Well,” he turned the crowd with a comforting smile, “why don’t you all come inside and we’ll see if I can help you.” The people moved toward the door, some with more confidence than others. More than a few paused before crossing the barrier and took large, preparatory breaths. Soon the courtyard was empty, except for me, sitting in my car, both hands on the steering wheel. He walked toward me. I sat frozen, looking forward, unwilling to match his eyes. “Thanks for the ride,” he said. “Don’t mention it.” I kept looking forward. “I told you I don’t have any ulterior motive here. But...” I didn’t need to hear him finish the sentence. He had seen inside the trunk. As I look back on it, I clearly had made no effort to hide it. He knew my duffel bag was in there. I don’t remember when I packed it and left it there, but Denise never said anything about it. At some level she must have understood this would happen. “I need a change, Carl.” He nodded. “This is a big step. There is a lot more ahead of you, but once you go inside, all of this is over.” He gestured around him, to the world I had spent the last seventeen years definitively tied to. “I know.” “Denise, the garden, everything . It all changes once you step through that door.” He looked at the door. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I stepped out of the car. I didn’t stop to think. One moment I was sitting, the next I was at the trunk, popping it open and grabbing my bag. I stood next to Carl. My lungs shook when I exhaled. “It’s going to be alright,” he said. We walked slowly toward the door, the duffel between us. At the entrance I paused to look at the sky, one last time. In that moment, at the precipice of old and new, as I stood ready to plunge into forever, the only thing I could think of was that I had forgotten to water the houseplants that morning. I stepped into the blackness.


The white bright sun is slowly sinking behind the far crimson mountain, scattering the last bits of its warm light all over the rusty rocks around me. I still remember the first time I tasted its ultraviolet flavoured rays spreading against my screens. It felt real and special, much better than the boring simulations in NASA. I gathered the last bits of energy still flowing in my power lines, and barely climbed over a small pebble. Back in my first days, I’d jump the highest rocks with the least bit of care, but fifteen years is not a short time, and I can feel fatigue straining against my axes, causing me a strange feeling when I try to move. A feeling I lack enough intelligence to explain, but I can guess it’s what humans call pain. The sun is running down faster, and I still didn’t get the energy I need. I’m pushing myself to the highest spot, struggling to turn my screens towards her, but all in vain. “ My batteries are low” I hate to send these messages. Vandi always gets upset when she receives them, and I don’t want her to be sad. She guided me through the toughest times. My memory cards are already crumbling with all this rusty dust accumulating inside me throughout the long weary years, but I still clearly remember the joy I felt in the commands when she was driving me. They will tell you that a robot can’t feel, but believe me, I do, and I always felt happy when I got those commands from her. I wish I didn’t have to send this message, but it’s my duty to inform. Poor Vandi. She would be worried. I remember the last time I sent her this message. She tried everything she could to stay in touch with me. I vaguely remember her commands, her begging and her prayers, but I do remember the joy when I finally recharged, and sent her the awesome view of the rusty sunset down the valley. The final rays of sunshine are fading away. I’m running with all my remaining power, but I’m too weak to move, and I feel the pain crushing my inner joints. I’m tired. I wish I can reach the sun before my batteries die. I know I’m very old already. I know I won’t be able to do all these cool tests that make Vandi happy anymore. I’m too crushed and bruised to jump on the craters and run between the huge rocks. But all I want is to sit there, on the top of the small cliff, to enjoy the lovely sunsets every night, and send Vandi a “Good Morning” every time I feel the slight warmth of the big yellow star after a long freezing night. It’s getting dark. I can feel the chilling wind booing around me. I feel very cold. My very last drops of power are leaving my rusty damaged body. I just hope I made my humans proud. I hope I was a good robot. I hope one day they will come for me, and I will be watching the beautiful sunset with Vandi again.


I left on the boat today. The boat with my darling. We drifted from the port of Weymouth, heading due south. It was one of the days that you only daydream about. One that you think that you’ll see, but you never do. A bright, warm day where the birds chirp and the leaves blow and everything in your life seems almost perfect. Almost. We loaded all of our luggage to the yacht. Everything that we would need for a day on the sea. She over packed, and I under packed. We were always polar opposites. We set sail at around 10AM that morning. It was the ninth of May. I remember that day very clearly. She had looked at me with loving eyes for the first time in as long as I can remember. She saw me as her world again. As the one she would spend the rest of her life with, the one. I had seen her that way since I first laid eyes on her, but she was never one for absolutes. Until that day. The wind was on our side, and so was the current. We planned to take it lazily and let the sail down half way through our journey for some fishing. We made it half an hour before it started. Borderline personality disorder is something that no one should ever, ever have to deal with. I thought that I was her cure, her saviour. But you can never know with this. You think that progress has been made. You make it 6 months of her loyalty, and then it happens. And it happened that day. She had recently been promoted in her job. At the same time that they had hired a new boy. A young boy. A courier for the company. Now, she didn’t see anything in him. She thought he was annoying, even. It didn’t have anything to do with who he was. It was just that fact that he was new. That’s all it took. She started telling me about him. She used language to evoke jealousy from me, because she knew that if I got jealous that she would have that to use against me and thus have a reason to be angry at me. I knew how it worked. She had done this so many times before that I knew better than to take the bait. Until she crossed a line. She told me that she masturbated to this boy. That she wanted him to fuck her. I was upset, obviously. The second I showed it, she took it as distrust. She said that I should expect more of her. Whenever you try to converse with a BPD sufferer like this, you should know that you are going to lose. Whatever you say, however you take it, you will come out on the bottom. I knew I was pinned. I told her to think whatever she wanted, as long as I was the one she came home to at night. But she kept pushing. She told me that I was keeping her on a leash. That I should set her free and not be so demanding as to want a monogamous relationship with my wife. Borderline personality sufferers do not heal. There is no cure, and no amount of therapy can cure such a thing. One in ten sufferers take their own lives because of their severe lack of empathy and understanding of human feelings. This was the sixth time she had done this to me. The sixth dumb, pathetic obsession she had had with a boy that she barely knew. This would never, ever end. I was done. I entered this relationship as a somewhat normal man. Now, I am a depressed, anxious alcohol that uses any drug that I can find to escape the shitty reality that is this marriage. But I love her. I love her enough to fix her problem for her. By now, we are two hours into our trip. I can see Guernsey on the horizon. I pull down the sails. I am calm and precise in my actions. I know that I can never see her leave me. She asks what’s going on. I tell her that I just stopped to look at the view and to talk with her. I take my fishing rod, unwind some string and wrap it around her neck. Tight and firm. She has caused me a lifetime of pain, and now it was my turn. I bury the hook deep into her neck to ensure the strangling line stays steady. I make her look into my eyes. I tell her that it will all be over soon. That she will be free from her madness in a matter of seconds. I tie two of the heavy sandbags from the yacht to the line, kiss her tenderly on the forehead, and throw her overboard. The world would be a better place now. I light a cigarette and pour myself a large glass of vodka. I don’t feel any regret, and I don’t think that I ever will. Off to Guernsey, I sail.


It had been almost four minutes. It was not agony or ecstasy. It was one song, and dance can play funny tricks on the mind while an artist performs. Time speeds up when the music is slow and conversely takes forever even when the beat seems impossibly fast. Faith had only one week to pick the music, prepare the dance, and find something to wear. She had not felt this sort of excitement and anxiety in decades, especially not for herself. Faith had never been much for risk-taking and now was certainly not the time to change her mind. Her dreams of professionally performing never materialized, but she never regretted her path. She often taught others about dance, how to view dance, and even how to dance. For years, she stood in front of mirrors, in converted rooms meant for anything but artistic movement, or in any space large enough to move to share her passion for dance. Sometimes that space was no larger than a closet, but it did not matter. Now, all she had to do was take this leap. It was not a matter of courage per se; it was truly a matter of about five feet and might result in deep admiration or devastating embarrassment. Faith finished her turn, took a deep breath, waltzed back a few more steps, and then started her pas de bourrée. She then added her glissade. She was nearing the end of the piece. The auditorium was perfectly quiet save for the harmonica and its player’s gravelly voice taking turns. She was hoping for a perfect split leap in the air. It would look impressive, sail through the air, and land gracefully. Theoretically, it was that simple. The execution was the true leap itself. She launched off her left foot and felt her right leg glide up into the air. Her thoughts seemed to slow as her body rose into the lighted darkness. Why did I agree to this benefit concert? No one wants to see a forty-four-year-old dancer. There are reasons why dancers retire. Gracefulness and style are no match for inhuman flexibility and waif-like stature. This is a nightmare. I should have stayed in my classroom. Books and papers are much safer than audiences who audibly display their opinions. I agreed too quickly. A high school teacher has never performed for this cause before, and it has been years since anyone has asked me to perform. Choreograph...yes. Teach...yes. Direct even...yes. Just dance...no. Her arms bowed through first and extended up toward the canned lights above her. The music behind her swept through the air like a warm breeze. She could feel the extension of her whole body as her feet ascended to their limits above the stage. It was then that Faith looked out among the seats. What must my daughter think? She’s an athlete and dance has never excited her. She attends concerts, participates in workshops, and even lets me talk about dance during musicals when we watch them. I’m embarrassing her. She must be sitting out there cringing over her mother in a leotard performing with artists more than half her age. Maybe I should have paid more attention to that face she made when I explained this performance. Faith’s exhale indicated her descent, and she could feel gravity pulling her muscles back through the empty space below. It was all coming to an end. Her limbs felt weightless as she continued back down to reality. One last moment, a bow, and then a quick retreat off stage left. The promise of an ending made her heart beat faster as she looked to see that she was still a fair distance above the black matte beneath her. Why don’t companies commission dancers whose passion lies in simple movements? Why must dance impress solely on how hard the body exceeds expectations? I’ve seen senior citizens and children entertain while professionals induce napping. It doesn’t have to be all or none. Dance tells people’s stories, shares their emotions, and helps them find meaning. Every age and ability can do that. Any body can move so people empathize. I have missed this... Her right foot touched down with barely a whisper as her left foot slid perfectly through first to stop in front of her. The dance was concluding. She felt her lungs swell and her arms pulled in. In that moment, she had to choose to open herself again to the world or remain closed. Without a moment’s hesitation, Faith brought her arms up and stretched them wide to embrace whatever response the people in the audience shared. Blues Traveler faded into silence and she took another deep breath. Her eyes scanned the dark room where she knew so many of her colleagues, students, and even family were sitting. She allowed the tiniest smirk to creep up the right side of her downstage face as she watched the dust particles become suspended in the path of the lilac spotlight. There are so many artists in this world who just need to be asked to shine. We need their lights as much as they need to be seen. People don’t lose their dreams when they get older. They lose the belief that anyone wants them to be seen. It was not over. Before a cavalcade of applause, a few random claps, or even utter silence could ensue, Faith leapt once more. It was not as grand as the leap seconds ago, but it changed her position so she could look in a new direction. The spotlight shifted and she gracefully allowed her arms to fall just above her sides. Looking over her right shoulder she let the light illuminate her shadowed glance onto the wall. We all need to ignite our fires and be warmed by the glow of others. The smirk released into a knowing smile on Faith’s face. They may not have been the perfect split leaps, but it was a perfect moment. She found her light and a dance that started forty years ago was only paused again as Faith breathed into her lasting pose.


Hi all, A few years ago a read a series of posts from someone regarding the prompt "Don't look up" It went from a prompt into a full length book about someone who was told to not look up. I can only remember snippets of the series like the main protagonist being thrown into a boot (trunk) of a car and hearing someone being attacked outside, meeting a man who was still living with all electrics turned on with use of a faraday cage, a group of people learning how to locate the invisible monster by throwing lightbulbs on the ground and they would light up when it was close, a submarine was involved at some point. I've been trying to locate it but since the release of that Netflix film with the same title, that film seems to just clog my results.


Imagine if someone asked you, “If you could choose any superpower, what would it be?”. What would you choose? I bet a dozen different things came to mind. I know at least a few of you would probably say something like super-strength. Or the ability to fly. With how popular some of the big supers are, heroes like Cosmic Man or Power Woman, I know that’s probably first on a few lists. Big and powerful. Flashy. The epitome of what you picture when you think “superhero”. Still, maybe you’re rethinking that choice. Or maybe you had something else in mind. Maybe you even gave more than a knee-jerk response. What else did you come up with? Was it invisibility? The ability to hide from sight. To do whatever you want without worrying about being seen. Not very heroic of you, but still certainly superhuman. What about the ability to breathe fire? Would sure make cosplaying as a dragon fun. Or perhaps you chose something contrarian like “Money” just because you’re a fan of the playboy philanthropists with a penchant for justice and vigilantism. It’s funny. For a lot of people, they don’t think of the ability to manipulate time as being very high on that list. Until you mention it. “Gee, that sounds like a great power.” You’re probably thinking. “Why didn’t I think about that?” I wondered for a long time why nobody thought of time manipulation as a superpower. It just seemed obvious to me, but I guess it’s because I was born with it. A lot of people just take time for granted, I suppose. Everything exists within time. Everything is held by its laws. In a way, it’s easier to forget that it’s there. Now, though, I think it’s because some deep part of the universe knows better than to let too many people go mucking about with the very fabric holding everything together. It’s better if people didn’t mess with it. Now, don’t get me wrong, there are one or two comics out there that talk about the idea of a hero with the ability to manipulate time. But of all the big licensed supers out there fighting bad guys in the streets, not one of them has that power. You would sooner see a six-year-old fighting a t-rex with a tanker truck than you would see someone stop time. Why is that? I learned early on that the first reason is just because a lot of people can’t even conceptualize what we’re doing when we’re using our powers. Time manipulation is so outside of the scope of proper existence that, when it’s seen, people don’t even know they’re seeing it. There are a few different kinds of T.M.’s, that’s short for Time Manipulators, people like me that can alter the flow of time in the universe. But all of them are generally misunderstood for something else. Take me for example: I can stop time. But what do you think that looks like to some guy watching? That’s right, it looks like I just moved super fast. So they just generally think I’m a speedster or something like that. Easy, right? Well, what about those who can move forward or backward in time? Same thing. If they move forward enough that they can be seen, provided the whole spatial issue, then POP, it looks like they just teleported. So someone thinks it’s a teleportation power. And going backward in time? Same thing, albeit with odd accents and money you’ve never seen. The only thing I think could ever stand out for what it would be is if a T.M. was able to specifically mess with the age of a given object, but I’ve never seen one of us manage that. I’m sure it’s theoretically possible, but either it’s incredibly rare or you need to live long enough to develop it, and none of us have pulled that off. That brings me nicely to the second problem with messing with time and why you don’t see many of us: it’s fucking dangerous. Simply put, despite T.M.’s showing up at about the same rate as other supers, we just don’t have a long shelf-life. I mentioned earlier the “spatial issue”. While I’ve personally never dealt with it, an old buddy of mine explained it to me before he died. In short, while a lot of T.M.’s can manipulate time, the universe is made up of both time and space. Basic physics kind of stuff. But those basic physics make a big difference when you travel in time because there’s a fair chance that the planet you’re on won’t exist beneath your feet if you go too far backward or ahead. With very few exceptions, most T.M.’s couldn’t do anything about that and so any jumps they made had to be in weird, quick intervals to avoid leaving the Earth behind. Space is pretty fucking cold and you can’t breathe out there. Unfortunately, though, for someone like me with the ability to stop time, not breathing is also a big issue. As a kid, I remember seeing a bunch of comics about how cool it would be to stop time, to run around without anyone moving or even knowing what was going on, but those stories never took into account the fact that when you stop time, more than just people are frozen. And I don’t mean plants or animals or bugs or anything like that. Like I said earlier, everything in the universe is bound to time. You’ve heard of the speed of light, right? Maybe you haven’t thought of it too much, but speed implies movement. A lightyear is the speed of light measured against time. So naturally, if you stop time, you stop light. Do you know what else requires time to move around? Air. Oxygen. Nitrogen. Hydrogen. All those little particles that make up our ability to breathe. To survive. All of those are just as dictated by time as the rest of us. And if they aren’t moving. You aren’t breathing them. Even worse than that, if they aren’t moving, then you aren’t moving. Yet again, if time isn’t moving, then none of those little particles are. Fully stopping time is like locking yourself in a prison of darkness, unable to move any part of your body. My mom and dad thought they were night terrors when I was a kid. Turned out it was just my superpower developing and no one understanding that the “sleep paralysis” that wore off after I passed out was me accidentally locking myself in that prison. Who knew I’d put myself back in it willingly? To be fair, I figured out what it was years ago and I haven’t used a full time-stop again until today. Normally I do what I call “Extreme Slo-mo”. You slow down time just enough so that you’ve still got photons bouncing around and the particles in the air can move around. It’s like moving through beef stew, and you still can’t breathe, but it lets me do my job and save people. It also comes with the cool side effect of making these big explosions when I move through a lot of space because it displaces all the air super fast. Everyone thinks I’m a speedster because of it, and I guess for a long time I was happy to just accept that. Until today. Man, everything was going great today. It was supposed to be nice and easy. Just go grab some shmuck that had taken some hostages. My friends and I had dealt with similar stuff a hundred times over since we became supers five years ago. Why the fuck did he have a nuke? Maybe if I was a speedster, I could have done something. At the very least, maybe I could have gotten away. I wouldn’t just be sitting here waiting for my body to give up and pass out. It’s already been three minutes since I locked myself in my little time prison. It’s pretty impressive I haven’t blacked out already. Okay, maybe I’m being pedantic. I don’t have any light and I haven’t since that bastard set off the bomb. I just wish I had realized what he was doing. Wish I had been proactive and not only been able to react. He’d already pressed the button. Already primed it to go off. He had never intended to get out of there. He just wanted to take some supers with him and used the hostages to do it. I just wish I had a chance to do it over again. Who knows, maybe I can figure out how to. I’ve got all the time in the world.


Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Old Mr. James shook the snow from his boots and coat with practiced ease. His heavy frown and wrinkled forehead made his actions cartoon-like as he tossed his coat onto the wire coat rack. He hunched his sturdy shoulders as he walked through the department store, glaring at the brightly wrapped presents, decorated trees, and Santa’s elves as they waved from every corner at him. “I don’t know why they have to go to so much trouble. Christmas is just something corporate made up to get their fingers into every American pocketbook and every woman’s purse.” He was so deep into his muttering that he didn’t notice the slim, young girl staring up at him. He plowed right into her, and she gave a startled cry. “Hey!” He jumped back immediately, glancing down at his sparkling Allen Edmonds to make sure they weren’t smudged, and then back up at the girl. “What were you doing in my way, girlie?” Her big, Christmas-red bow on her brown head trembled, but the white little face was set like flint. “I’m very sorry, Mister, but you weren’t watching where you were going.” She rubbed her arm where he ran into her and glared at him. “And you hurt my arm.” Mr. James stammered and stuttered as the little girl frowned. “My mommy says you need to apologize when you hurt someone.” She stood there, just waiting, her little lips pursed in disapproval. Mr. James turned on his heel after a moment and stomped in the other direction. “Humph!” He said, swinging his arms beside him. “Her mother didn’t raise her right, I guess.” He opened the door to his office in the back and sat in his leather chair with a thud. Rolling up to the desk, he flipped open his laptop, and placed in his noise-canceling earbuds. He hated Christmas music, so he listened to classical music at the loudest setting possible. Maybe that’s why his hearing was going - he still wasn’t sure. Time passed so quickly, that when he glanced up, it was nearly the end of the day. He rose and headed back to the end of the hall for his coat. Thrusting his arms into the sleeves, he turned up the collar, and faced the door, ready to head out into the onslaught of a snowy winter. “Mr. Grouchy Man?” He heard the little voice behind him, and he turned his head slightly, not acknowledging the voice. It continued on without missing a beat. “Why aren’t you in the Christmas spirit?” At that, he whirled around and faced the little girl from earlier, her jaunty bow still held in place. Her big blue eyes held only curiosity. He tucked his chin into the collar of his coat and stared down at her. “My name is James Claus. And no, I don’t believe in Santa. Santa isn’t real. The Christmas spirit is just a scam that people who want to make sales made up. There’s no reason for me to be in the Christmas spirit, and I wish everyone would stop asking me why I’m not!” He was shouting, now, and the little girl blinked owlishly at him. “You mean you don’t like candy canes or sledding or snowmen?” “That’s exactly what I mean, little girl. And where is your mother? Surely she didn’t leave you here all alone?” A lady, red burning in her cheeks, matching the wool coat she wore, hurried by the perfume counter. She was scanning the store, her head whipping around, until she caught sight of the little girl. “Emily! Why did you run off again?” Emily glanced from Mr. James to the lady. “Sorry, Mother. I was just asking Mr. Grou--I mean, Mr. Claus why he wasn’t in the Christmas spirit.” The lady stared at him. “Mr. Claus? Is that really your name?” Mr. James grunted. “I prefer to be called Mr. James. And, yes, it’s really my name.” “Do you play Santa Claus?” “No, I do not play Santa Claus.” He said, adamantly. “And I will not be coerced into doing it.” Emily sidled a step closer to him. “Please, Mr. James? We have hot chocolate.” “What do you mean you have hot chocolate?” Emily’s mother smiled. “I am the owner of a company who sets up in the middle of the mall. My Santa just called in sick earlier this morning. If I got you a fake beard and paid you what it was worth, would you be willing to do it for me?” “No.” “But--“ Mr. James crossed his arms. “I said, no. ” The woman’s eyes twinkled. “What about if I let one of my other girls help you out behind the perfume counter while you did it? Your poor sales lady behind the counter could barely keep up. I’m sure you probably lost some sales because of it.” Mr. James cleared his throat. “Sales, did you say?” “And I would even pay my girl so that you don’t have to.” He stared at the lady in front of him incredulously. “You really need a Santa, don’t you?” Her lips formed into a thin line, and she crossed her arms across her chest. “Sir, some of these kids that come in here are very poor. They need whatever Christmas cheer that we can bring them. If you don’t want to do it, I will continue my search, but I will have to cancel tomorrow.” Emily tugged on the sleeve of his coat. “Please?” He sighed, loudly. “Fine. But only until you find someone else.” “Yay!” Emily jumped up and down, clapping her hands. Her bow flopped crazily over her head, and Mr. James almost smiled. Not quite, but almost. The woman, whose name he learned was Susie Clemmonts, hurried him off to the middle of the mall. She rummaged through large, plastic bins until she found a Santa suit. She held it up in front of her, shaking it out, and Mr. James smelled the distinct scent of mothballs. He wrinkled his nose. “Do I have to wear that?” “Unless you have a secret Santa suit that we don’t know about, yes.” Susie handed him the suit, a fake beard, and a floppy red hat and directed him toward the nearest restroom. Moments later, he emerged. Emily and her mother stared at him with wide eyes, not moving a muscle. He stared back at them. “What? Does it not look right?” “It’s perfect, Mr. James!” Emily breathed. “Are you really Santa Claus?” A smile spread across his face - a small smile, but a smile just the same. “Good.” He said, hurrying back to change into his regular clothes. And when no one could hear him, he muttered to just himself. “I’m glad.” The next morning, true to her word, Susie had a bright-eyed girl of seventeen to work the perfume counter. She was a powerhouse, helping customers left and right. The store made more sales that day than they had made all week, but Mr. James wouldn’t tell Susie that, of course. By that afternoon, Mr. James was suited up, an elf on either side of him, and practicing his very rusty, “Ho, Ho, Ho.” Emily giggled every time he tried. “Mr. James, that doesn’t sound normal.” “Then why don’t you do it for me?” She shook her head, curls swinging around her rosy cheeks. “That would be silly! Elves don’t laugh like Santa!” Kids in all shapes and sizes came through the line to see Santa that day. Big eyes stared up at him, asking for all manner of toys and games. His heart began to feel funny after a few hours - softer, somehow. By the end of the day, he was smiling so big his face hurt. Susie appeared at his elbow, placing her hand on the head of a very tired elf named Emily. “We’re about done, Mr. Claus, but I have one more very special child to bring to you.” She nodded at two people standing nervously by the corner. They bent over, and soon Mr. James saw a very small boy being wheeled to him in a wheelchair. The boy’s legs were bent and shriveled, his body twisted and broken. When he saw Mr. James, a great big smile stretched across his face, and he raised skinny arms to his mother. “Santa!” The mother carefully lifted him and placed him on Mr. James’ lap. “This is Benji, Mr. Santa Claus. He’s been waiting patiently all day to see you.” Mr. James smiled down at the boy, but when he spoke, his voice cracked with emotion. “What can I get you for Christmas, Benji?” Benji’s smile lit up the room. “I don’t want any toys or games.” He said, thoughtfully. “I want my mommy to be strong enough to take me Christmas caroling.” Mr. James cocked his head. “Why Christmas caroling, son?” “Because, Santa. I want to tell people about the true meaning of Christmas. All of these toys and gifts don’t matter much to someone who can’t use them.” He thumped his small chest with his left hand. “But I want people to know that Christmas is about so much more.” He paused and looked right into Mr. James’ grizzled face. “Do you know Silent Night, Mr. Santa?” Mr. James nodded his head, a tear dripping down his grizzled cheek and into his fake beard. “I do, son.” “Would you sing it with me?” Mr. James nodded again, and when he spoke, his voice gruff. “Of course I would.” Benji leaned back against Mr. James' arm, his clear young voice beginning the song. And one by one, his parents, Susie, and even Emily the elf, joined in. Their voices blended as they sang about Christmas, and about a peaceful time. The hustle and bustle of the mall faded to silence as the song rang out through the rafters. “Silent night, holy night.” When they finished, Benji gave Mr. James a hug and waved goodbye as his parents wheeled him back the way that he had come. Mr. James dropped his head so no one could see the tears filling his eyes. He felt a small hand steal into his rough one and heard Emily’s small voice beside him. “If Benji can have the Christmas spirit, I think we can, too. Can’t we, Mr. Claus?” Mr. James Clause squeezed Emily’s hand, smiling through his tears. “We can, Emily. And I think me and you and your mom may just help out some certain folks Christmas caroling tonight.” As Mr. James rose to his feet, Emily’s hand still in his, he looked around the mall with a new pair of eyes. The tacky Christmas decorations were the same. The loud, blinking lights still hurt his eyes. This time, though, none of it bothered him. The reason to celebrate was not in the gifts, but now, it was in his heart.


December in the southern hemisphere is summer, but she hadn’t got used to that yet. When Ana had pictured her destination months previously, she had thought of campfires and thermal underwear. As it was, she now wondered whether it would be tasteless to walk around a music festival wearing only a bikini. She’d seen enough men wearing speedos to think that it probably wouldn’t be a problem, but she slung on a beach wrap all the same. Thank god Ana had pitched her tent next to the beach house and she was able to make these decisions in private, in an air-conditioned bathroom, rather than squashed inside her sweaty canvas home, trying not to show her naked silhouette to her fellow hedonists. She pulled her hair back from her face and was grateful for this moment without perspiration, then she went outside to meet her friends. They were close enough to the equator that darkness had fallen already, and a moon shone above them, round and full. The lights from the beach house were the only sign of human existence, apart from the small group of human beings that stood before her now: Misha, the crazy one; Luke, the crazy one’s boyfriend; and Sami, the only one who understood her. “You look great,” Sami declared, and she wolf-whistled. “Thanks,” Ana replied. She kept her eyes on Sami’s feet until Misha invited them all to look at the moon and howl. Sami went first, then Luke, then Misha, but when it came to Ana’s turn, she stopped, embarrassed, and they laughed and hugged her close, a funny little throng of people who loved her and who weren’t afraid to show it. As they walked towards the festival, these were all the things that Ana wasn’t thinking about: her parents and their impending divorce, the three essays that needed to be written when she got back to university, the fact that she needed to find a job for the following northern hemisphere summer, the fact that her boyfriend had left her for someone else and she had to keep seeing them together which made her feel sick. These were the things she was thinking about: the bass pumping through the speakers at the stage ahead, the reusable cup she had stashed in her bag ready to be refilled, her friends who winked and whooped at the prospect of dancing until dawn, and absolutely nothing else. “Let’s get some food,” Luke shouted and they made their way to a burger truck where they peeled sweaty currency off a bundle of notes and gratefully bit into burgers with ketchup and salty, greasy, delicious chips, washed down with beer. Ana noted that she had drunk more beer than water over the past few days. Ah, the festival life. Sated, they went back to the giant soundstage and the music coursed through them and she was free. She was no dancer, but she didn’t care much. She threw her arms in the air, roughly in time with the music, and she swung her hips from side to side. Sami, in contrast, moved like a back-up dancer for Beyonce and soon there was a semi-circle of eager young men around her, clapping along and gazing at her movements with undisguised lust. “Oh fuck OFF,” she shouted, as one of them came closer, and she reached for her friends instead, and Misha laughed as she pushed the boy away. He was high enough not to mind and soon it was just the four of them, until Luke moved away to find a little chemical help. It was Misha who suggested that they climb the scaffolding on their left. The other festival-goers beckoned and cheered as the idea took hold. “We’ll be able to see everything,” Misha said, a slightly manic glint in her eye. “And everyone will be able to see us.” She’d never been shy, Misha, and now she started to climb. Her long legs made each upward motion look like walking up stairs. Ana wondered how she could possibly ascend with such grace and then she realised that no one was watching anyway. Before long, there they were, three best friends. The top of the scaffolding might as well have been the top of the world. The whole festival lay at their feet and it seemed to Ana that there was only this moment. Nothing else existed except music and these women, and the easy love that passed between them. When had she last felt this way? It was hard to remember. Certainly not with her family, whose expectations always pushed her in the wrong direction. And certainly not with the cheating ex who had always seemed nice enough as long as Ana reined it in, and didn’t dare to be too much, when actually she was just enough. Sami reached for her hand. Misha took the other one. And they danced. Later, much later, the reusable cups needed filling and the girls climbed down from the scaffolding and headed towards the bar. Luke appeared, red-eyed and smiling, and he and Misha peeled off, and at the bar, Sami spotted the girls they’d met the day before and got chatting. So Ana stood alone for a moment, the moon high above her, surrounded by people. The love of her life stood three feet away. He was sipping a beer and smoking a roll-up and every now and then, he shook the hair out of his eyes. He looked up and then he saw Ana. This was the moment that their adventure began. They would build a new life, together, in a new country. She would learn his language and he would help her roll the r sound in just the right way. They would rent a small house in the countryside and she would realise that he was impervious to dust and that she was quite a messy housemate. Sami and Misha would come to visit. Soon enough, there would be a son, who would be perfect in every way, and parenthood would test the young couple but would not break them. And Ana would never doubt him for a moment. But all that lay ahead. For now, Ana stood alone, feeling the tropical heat envelop her, and the music vibrate through the ground beneath her feet. And she thought that it would never get any better than this. Then he tapped her on the shoulder.


.(This story is set in earth’s twin planet GAIA2 which is about 800 years younger and is evolving.) Once upon a time there dwelt in Rubi Isle a man named Swig who was a farmer. He lived with his wife Sigma and their only daughter Chili who was now sweet 16. Swig and Sigma were not very intelligent though he managed their farm well. That day Swig was seated talking to his wife. She said “I keep telling you to repair the broken window upstairs but you’re refusing. Chili sleeps alone there and it worries me.” Swig said “You know the story about the window. My grandfather killed his rival and that fellow’s son broke the window. The wizard has said the window shouldn’t be repaired as the murdered man’s ghost would keep coming to haunt the murderer. It did come a few times.” Sigma said “Okay but I would like to tell her some secrets as she is of marriageable age.” “The fellow who marries will give her suitable instructions. I remember you telling me that your mother hadn’t told you enough but immediately after the ceremony you led me on.” “That’s instinct. Anyway I feel I should keep company with Chili.” “What happens if I need you suddenly in the night? I can’t shout asking for you and embarrassing our daughter.” “She won’t be embarrassed after I educate her.” He said “You know I’ll need you. I can’t be without you.” “That isn’t very often and you’ve heard me complain.” “Doesn’t matter. You continue to sleep with me.” Soon the spring festival was celebrated when maidens gathered to dance in front of citizens. Chili was the leader and she caught the eye of a rich man Ric. He was about 30 and had lost his first wife. After the festivities, Ric said to his batman Bat that he was in love with Chili. Bat was an athletic young man with a smiling face and Ric would use him to send important messages. Ric said “You must contact Chili and tell her about my love for her and that I would like to marry her.” He knew that since Bat was of a lower social status he wouldn’t be misunderstood talking to Chili. Bat was extra cautious and reaching her window, entered into Chile’s room one night. She was surprised but in the light of the burning torch was able to see Bat’s features. She liked the young man and sat talking to him. He spoke a lot about Ric praising him and Chili was impressed. Nevertheless her interest in Bat himself grew and she was in love with him. When he took some liberties with her she permitted him and in a short while they were playing clouds and rain. This continued for a few days as Ric was sending Chili gifts like gold ornaments through Bat and the latter was reporting that she was warming up to him. One night Sigma heard sounds upstairs and was worried. What if somebody had climbed in to handle her daughter? She spoke to Swig about an escort for Chili upstairs. He said “If we have to prevent a bad element we should’ve a male guard who can over-power intruders.” “That would be undesirable. A male isn’t suitable. It must be a female.” He said “If you bring in an old woman it would be useless as she would be frail and whoever enters could have his way.” “That is right. It must be a well-built woman. If she proves friendly she could put Chili wise about the ways of a man with his maid. I feel Wizi would be a good choice. She is about 40 is a widow and has the build to fit guard duty.” Swig said “I’ll summon her and talk to her.” “Don’t. I’ll do the talking. You won’t know how to put in all details.” Wizi came and met Sigma. Sigma made enquiries of Wizi. Wizi said “I live alone as I have no children. You know my husband died about 4 years ago. He was a security guard and had gone to save a child being washed away. The child was saved but he died and his body was washed away in the flood. Since then I’ve been living alone. My mother was a witch and she has taught me witch practices and people come to consult me. What do you require of me?” “Wizi, my daughter Chili is 16 and sleeps alone in the room upstairs with a broken window,” Wizi laughed and said “Yes indeed. It is a cause of worry.” Sigma said “Also she needs to be educated on what happens after the wedding. We’re close to seeking a groom for her.” Wizi laughed and said “I’m the wrong person for such education. I’ve even forgotten the ways of my husband.” “Come on! Don’t underestimate your capacity.” Wizi said “In such cases the mother usually does the instruction.” “My husband needs me by his side at night and won’t let me go and sleep with Chili.” Wizi laughed and said “I can understand. So what you’re asking me to do is sleep with Chili as a guard and an instructor.” “Exactly.” The terms were then discussed and fixed. At that time Chili came that way and Sigma said “Wizi this is my daughter Chili. Chili, Wizi will come and sleep with you upstairs. Listen carefully to whatever she tells you. It will be about what happens after your marriage. You should be ready with the knowledge.” Chili said “Mom, I can sleep alone. There is no need to get Wizi to come and sleep here.” Sigma said “Child you don’t know the follies a woman faces. Wizi will explain everything to you.” Chili was unhappy at her mom installing a guard for obvious reasons, but she was a clever girl and resolved to handle the situation as it arises. The same night Wizi moved in. She said “Child do you know what .....” “Wizi I know everything. I don’t need the instruction. Please sleep well.” Chili stood at the window and when Bat climbed in she whispered to him about Wizi sleeping there. He said “I can hear her snoring. We won’t make the usual noises.” When the 2 were busy, Wizi who was hearing all that was happening got up and said “I know what is happening.” Chili said “Don’t disturb us. I’ll compensate you with money.” Wizi laughed and said “That won’t do. I want a piece of the action.” Bat said “It’s a very simple demand. I’ll meet your requirement also.” It straightaway became a ménage a trois with Wizi taking the initiatives. All 3 were happy at the way it had happened. A few days passed and Wizi was surprised to see Ric at her door. She called him in and said “You’re an important citizen. What can bring you to my hovel?” He said “I understand you’re Chili’s caretaker. I want you to influence Chili in my favour. I’ve used Bat but he hasn’t been able to influence her despite his many visits and the gifts I’ve bestowed on her through him. Can you do it? I’ll pay you for it.” Wizi tried to say she couldn’t do it, but then the promise of money tempted her. She said “Pay me in advance,” After he had made the payment she said “I’ll do my best.” Ric thought he had now almost got Chili. Sigma was getting reports about Chili having received all information regarding dealing with a husband. Wizi said “She will make a good wife.” There was now a complication: Chili was in the family way! Wizi tried out drugs she knew to end the threat but she had no luck. She then devised a plan keeping Chili and Bat in the know. Thta night Wizi screamed and Sigma with Swig rushed upstairs. Sigma saw Wizi lying nude and shouted “Cover up! My husband is also here. What happened?” Wizi said “I was raped. It must’ve been the ghost taking revenge for past happenings.” Chili who stood shedding tears said “It happened to me also.” Swig said “The ghost has waited so many years to wreak vengeance. I’ll arrange to repair the broken window. The ghost has had its revenge and may not return.” The broken window was rectified in a day preventing any further unauthorised entry. Wizi said “This rape would’ve consequences. Get Chili married quickly. I’ve a suggestion. Ric needs a wife. Chili could marry him.” Chili was very happy with the suggestion as Bat continued in service. Wizi met Bat and said “Don’t forget that I also need service.” Bat said “Sure. It will be provided depending on convenience.” All involved were happy. END


The smell of sulfur filled Emily’s nostrils as she struck the matchhead on the side of the box. The light from the flame caused her to temporarily see spots every time she blinked. She extended the match to the fresh wick resting atop the blood red candle she had found in a drawer in the house and lit it. The wax instantly pooled and ran down the sides of the beacon before dripping onto the grass. Emily rested on her knees next to the freshly filled hole with her Bible in her hand and optimistic thoughts on her mind. She needed her Henry to come back to her. Emily missed him dearly. Emily closed her eyes and cleared her mind of the doubts that had piled in the back of her head. All she could focus on now was hope. Hope that she knew what she was doing. Hope that she had the strength. Hope that Google wouldn’t lie to her. Being brought up in a religious household, Emily knew what she was about to do may be an afront to God, but she had to push those fears aside. She could reconcile with him later. The echoes of her mother’s voice filled her thoughts, “God works in mysterious ways,” over and over. It ate at her. She knew he did and believed it whole-heartedly, but maybe he got this one wrong. The light from the full moon illuminated her surroundings and helped guide her hand as she drew a star on the grave. The article said “pentagram,” but she wasn’t about to go to hell over Henry. No, she just spun the star a few degrees until it looked normal and not satanic. In her mind, this would help her case should God need any further details. A few rhyming verses were instructed to be repeated as part of the ritual, but Emily felt uncomfortable saying them, so she made up her own chant: “Be it day. Be it night. I ask you to see the light. I like burgers. I like fries. Please let my Henry a...RIIISE.” She repeated these lines several times with a synchronized arm movements for emphasis. Every time she repeated herself, she got a little louder. Apparently, she was supposed to be waiting for the candle to get blown out. That would either mean Henry was coming back to life, or to haunt her. Either way, she’d get to see him again, or so she figured. As she begun to lose her breath, she yelled the verses as loud as she could and raised her arms to the sky one last time. The smoke from the snuffed candle tickled her nostrils and brought a grin to her face. She waited patiently for what may come next. According to the instructions, if done correctly, the ground should start shaking and Henry should appear one limb at a time like a phoenix from the ashes. She waited. And waited. The longer she waited, the damper her eyes got until the tears streamed down her cheeks in consistent flows. She wailed in pain. It just had to work, she thought to herself. But it hadn’t. She stood up and frantically stomped the dirt around his plot. The dust in the air caused her to cough a little bit and it mixed with the tears causing her face to become unexpectedly dirty. She ran inside and straight upstairs, only stopping in the bathroom to wash up before diving into her bed and crying into her pillows. Her clock said 3:24 when she was suddenly awoken by an oddly familiar noise. It was if something was slowly rolling across the floor, occasionally bumping into things as it guided itself through the darkness. It couldn’t be , Emily thought to herself, piecing together the noises. “Henry? Is...is that you?” There was no response. “Henry?” She asked into the night once again. Emily peeked her head out of her room and quickly scanned both ends of the hallway. Left, right, then left again. But she didn’t see anything. “Henrrrryyy?” Her voice echoed off the walls and into the dark voids of the house. The rolling started again, but it sounded further away, so she left her doorway and began walking down the corridor towards the stairwell. She heard a bump coming from downstairs and got a little excited. She quickly darted down the stairs, her feet patting each step with a quick tap as they swiftly moved from one to the next. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and held her breath, listening for any signs of life. A shuffling came from the office and she immediately turned to walk towards it. As she approached the doorway and let her eyes adjust to the images she was seeing, her smile quickly turned to a grimace and the air left her lungs completely. “Oh...God.” The creature that stood before her was not Henry. No. It was something that looked like Henry but Emily knew it wasn’t. It had glowing red eyes and snarled as it noticed her. She gasped in horror as it pivoted to approach her. Its long, disheveled hands reached for her, grasping at the air with distorted tendrils. She screamed. And screamed. The longer she screamed, the redder her face got until she felt like her skull was going to explode. She shouted in distress. She had to move, to run. But she couldn’t. Suddenly, the lights in the office flicked on and Emily noticed her brother Zach standing just inside the room. Henry’s evil spirit had vanished. “Are you okay?” Zach asked in a panic. “I heard you screaming from all the way upstairs.” Emily had to catch her breath. The sweat beaded on her forehead and began to moisten her brow. She tried to speak, but it was hard to find the words. “H...He...Henry....ghost...res...urrected.” “What?” Zach was completely confused and gave Emily a few moments to compose herself. She slowed her heartbeat and begun to form actual sentences. “I missed Henry. So, I looked up resurrection spells.” She pulled out a folded piece of paper from her back pocket and handed it to Zach. “I think I did it wrong, because his angry spirit tried to get me.” She pointed to the corner that she had first noticed Henry in. “Henry? As in your dead hamster?” He scratched his head. “That Henry?” “I just missed him so much.” Zach sighed, looked at the paper, scolded her for trying to conjure some black magic in a Christian household and sent her to bed. “I will say, though, that’s pretty impressive for an 8-year-old.” She tried to laugh but hadn’t gathered that much strength yet. She laid in bed long after Zach had shut the door and stared at her ceiling in the dark. She went through all that had happened to her and feared that God had punished her. “God works in mysterious ways” entered her mind again. And so did the rolling and bumping. Only, it wasn’t in her mind. It was right outside her door.