"*It began when they come took me from my home, And put me in Dead Row,* *Of which I am nearly wholly innocent, you know."* \-Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds "Give me the key to the Chevy, Ant, you aren't driving that thing anywhere. You're toasted." Anthony looked at his old buddy Pete with quiet indignation and relinquished the keys to his truck. Partially because Pete was a straight shooter--always had been, and partially because there were currently two of him. "Sure, you got it. . .*Petes*." Anthony said with a laugh. The twin Petes did not laugh. "Get to steppin' buddy. I'll call Suzy and tell her you're on your way." "That's a terrible idea," Anthony said, throwing his hands up with exaggerated alarm, "I'll catch hell--just give me my house key off that ring and I'll get out of your hair." "I lost my hair because of friends like you years ago, Ant." Pete said, finally relinquishing a smile. Pete had a nasty habit of scaring off potential new customers with his trademark resting-bitch-face or "RBF" as the regulars called it. He was a prematurely bald fellow, but it didn't look wrong on him--6ft and 250lbs of bearded Americana. With his white apron on, he was your stereotypical small-town, working class, bartender. A stereotype he did not mind perpetuating. "Here ya' go anyhow, chief." Pete said, with a sniff, sliding the key across the bar to Anthony. As he scooped his key off the polished oak he looked up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. "Jesus, I sure do look the part." He said, scratching at his chin. Anthony's neat hair had fallen out of it's normal combed back style, and was a bird's nest atop his head. His cheeks were flushed, and his ears were red. A 5 o'clock shadow had developed on his previously clean shaven face. Anthony was handsome enough, dimpled chin and a strong jawline. His college baseball days were behind him, but he was still in shape. His eyes were a unique hazel, more green than brown. But now, his unique eyes were blood shot, and if you put enough booze in Tom Cruise, he'll still look like shit. The thought of explaining his current condition to his wife weighed heavily on his mind. Luckily, the Pair-o-Petes saved the day with sober reason. "Shit yeah you look the part," Pete said, "wash up and get the hell home, Ant." On his way to the men's room, Anthony heard what sounded like someone getting sick. The person inside the john was moaning, it sounded to Anthony like a ghost from a bad campfire story. "Did you eat some of Petes cooking? You *gotta* be new here." Anthony called out, stifling a laugh. No answer, and the moaning continued. Anthony tried the doorknob, finding it locked he realized he had to take a leak. He began to knock. "Hey fella! I'm not shy and I need to make water . . . light a match if you have to, I just want to use the pisser!" Anthony knocked harder still, causing the thin plywood door to shake in its frame. "Honestly pal, I'm gonna piss my pants if this door doesn't get unlocked, I need to go!" The moaning continued, unchanged. "Fucking *hell*! PETE!" Anthony cried. "What do you need, Ant? Too drunk to work the toilet?" Pete answered with a laugh. "Har-de-fuckin-har! You got a stew bum passed out in the commode with the god damn door locked!" Pete didn't respond. "Peter," Anthony called out, "I'm going to take a whiz on your floor if you don't get back here and open this thing!" "Bull*shit* you will! I'll have your ass!" "Too late Peeeete, it's happening!" Anthony called out in a singsong voice. Peter appeared at the end of the hall way, his bald head turning bright red, and made his way quickly to the men's room door. "You don't tip me enough to be your goddamn doorman too, ya know." Pete said with a wink, fumbling through his keys, "Either way, here's the throne room, your majesty." The bathroom door swung in to reveal an empty room, the stall door stood open with no one inside. "What the hell?" Anthony said walking in, already looking for the source of the noise. Peter watched his blitzed friend search under the sink, behind the 3-foot-tall waste basket, and finally, in the toilet bowl. "Pete, I swear to God th-" "Don't, Ant, this joke didn't track, but I'm not mad." Pete began making his way back down the hallway. Watching Peter leave without a word, Anthony made his way to the corner of the restroom where the urinal stood. As he did the deed, he noticed a folded piece of yellow legal paper tucked behind the flusher. He unfolded it and stared at a single letter, scrawled across the scrap. **A** "'A' huh? Well, isn't that neat? Coulda' left me a fiver or something, Mr.Disappearing-man." Without thinking about it, he stuffed the note into his jeans and left, being sure to leave the door open. A round of 'See ya laters' followed Anthony out the door, as he left Pete's bar. He started to walk towards his house, only a few blocks down the street, then remembered he was leaving the truck, and spun on his heels. He made it to the vehicle and checked the driver's side door, finding it locked, he chuckled. *Good,* he thought, *no one will be able to get my precious collection of burned cds and loose change*. He walked around to the passenger side door, checked the handle and discovered a piece of paper tucked inside. "Lemme' guess", he mumbled, "'b'?" 'B' it was not. Written in the same sweeping hand writing as the note in the bathroom, was the word: **WE** Anthony jammed the paper in his pocket and stormed back towards the bar to see if Pete or the guys new anything about the notes. He arrived at the large door and yanked at the handle, flinging it open, dramatically. He let out a frightened squeak. The bar was completely empty; tables wiped clean, chairs stacked, glasses and mugs spotless on their shelves behind the bar. There was no smell of beer or burned burgers. It was like being inside a picture. "Guys?", Anthony said, panic causing his voice to hitch. No one answered. "Who the hell is leaving me these notes?" He called out, any buzz left in him had been scared away. "Why am I getting fucked with?" He continued to ask the empty room. A pained moan was his only reply. His balls jumped into his body, as his feet left the floor. "What the fuck is this!?" Anthony bellowed, trying his best to sound tough, but sounding more like a petulant, little kid. The sound came again, from behind the bar, gritty and grinding, like an old door opening. In an ungraceful leap, Anthony landed prone on top of the bar, landing on an ashtray and winding himself. His legs draped over the stools, he took a sharp breath in, and peaked behind the bar. Nothing was back there, not even a bottle cap on the floor. Seeing this, Anthony got up and sprinted for the door. Once outside he took a breath and pulled out his cell. 'NO SERVICE' flashed at him from the screen. He took off down the street towards his house, pumping his legs as hard as he could. He approached the first of two cross walks he would have to pass before arriving home. He began to slow to makes sure he wouldn't get flattened by a car, when he noticed two things: 1) There were no cars, no traffic at all. It was only ten o'clock but every house was dark. 2) There was a shadow walking towards him from the other side of the road. It looked like the world had a man shaped hole in it; as if some great child had used the earth as its construction paper for a "Flat Stanly" cut-out. It was close in shape to a Ginger Bread Man, but instead of nice, round hands and feet, this shadow had cruel spikes for fingers, and terrible clawed toes. As this thing approached Anthony, it's walk steadied, and it began to take on more definition; and an awful smell. The once shuffling gait had evolved into a smooth pace, and the long arms, and spiked hands had ceased resting at the creature's sides. They were now raised, and the fingers were fidgeting--anxious to find something to grab. The familiar moaning began to project from the living shadow, it moved at him, faster now. Its body made no sounds as it moved, no footfalls, no shuffling of feet or swishing of fabric, only the horrible moaning, the musty smell of warm river water and mud began to coat the back of Anthony's throat. Anthony didn't wait for the monster searching claws, he took off in another dead sprint. His lungs on fire, his legs felt as if they were filled with broken glass, his heart was beating so hard in his throat he was afraid he would gag. As his body burned, his phone began to ring. He snuck a glance behind him; he had lost the shadow. The caller ID showed unavailable. He answered, not caring who it was--the need to hear a human voice vital. "Don't fucking moan, please" Anthony began, badly winded, "Tell me I'm being audited, or that my dog died, just don't fucking moan." First, there was soft static, then a voice which sounded like cicadas singing, worked together to speak. "WEEEEE. AYYYYY." The fear left Anthony for a moment and was replaced by a confused rage. "'We-ay' what?? The fuck does that mean!? Who are you!?" "AYYYYYY. WEEEEEE." The cicadas answered. "Where are all my friends!? What the hell did you do to everyone!?" A young woman's voice answered him this time. "You will be alone, just like us, Anthony. You will understand." Anthony's stomach did a rough flip, and settled itself. Anthony understood, but didn't believe it. It had been fourteen years since his accident. It had been fourteen years since he heard that awful moaning. She was walking towards Anthony's truck off of the shoulder, being sure to keep her face towards on coming traffic, and Anthony was too drunk to notice her. He was driving like an 18-year-old does on an old farm road; fast and free. One second of negligence was all it took. Anthony had reached down to pull another Miller tall boy off the plastic six pack rings, then there was loud thump which shook the vehicle and jerked the wheel. He slammed the brakes hard and got out to see the damage, and the size of the deer he had struck. When his boots hit the gravel, he heard the moaning. He crossed to the passenger side of the truck and the moaning grew louder, and the smell of shit and blood hit his nose. "Help us," she said, choking, "You've got to help us, *please*." She held her stomach gingerly, the all too obvious bump of pregnancy was now misshapen, like a half-deflated football. Her hair, brown and curly, was plastered to the side of her face with blood, her jaw trembled. She couldn't have been more then 25. Her dark skin and full lips were illuminated by Anthony's tail lights. The red glow muting what would have otherwise been an incredibly harsh, red, scene--she was beautiful even then. Her slender frame was warped. The truck had done it's damage. Her legs were twisted and broken, and her hips where so far out of place it made her look as though she were smuggling produce under her jeans. Jeans which darkened as a rapidly growing stain spread from her knees, and up to her groin, and wrapped around her waist. "Fuck no. No-way-no-way-no-way", Anthony mumbled, his eyes wide, but dry. His hands were shaking, so he pulled them in against his chest, and crouched beside her. He began to rock back and forth. "Help us", she choked, her teeth becoming more red with every word, "I'm 6 months. He's healthy. Go get someone." She looked at him, staring, waiting for a reply. "Okay, let me get you into the truck--wait, should I move you? *Shit,* I don't know what to do!" she didn't respond, she just kept staring at him. *Past him*. She was gone. Her body settled, laying perfectly still and silent. The only sounds on the stretch of road were the clunky idling of Anthony's truck, and the singing of the cicadas. They had been everywhere that spring and early summer, loud, noisy and ever present. Strange creatures, showing themselves sporadically, some annually, some taking almost 2 decades to come forth from the ground and scream their unwanted music. Now, they sang their song to this broken woman, no eulogy for her and her unborn son, just the grating cry of the cicadas. Anthony worked quickly, not thinking, panic driving his body. He rolled her off the side of the road and down into the deep irrigation ditch, long out of use. There was a splash, and he watched her body rise to the top, like a fishing bobber. "No, no, *no*!", He scrambled along the shoulder of the road, found a few heavy rocks and ran down the hill, and into the water. He made his way to the woman with one of the rocks in hand, and stuffed it beneath her hooded sweatshirt. He felt her cold, wet skin and the lumpy presence of broken bones beneath it and recoiled, then vomited. The smell of brackish water and thick mud was so overpowering, the smell of recently expelled beer was nearly cancelled out. He continued his work until she sank, and stayed at the bottom. He watched for a moment, and deciding it was good enough, returned to his truck to check the damage. He dug his fingers deep into the earth, pulling himself up the bank, cursing himself for being so stupid, and cursing the woman for walking along the dirt road in the middle of the night. The front end looked nearly perfect, the old steel frames were sturdy and unforgiving. There was a small dent in the chrome bumper, but nothing that anyone would notice. He had thought for certain there would be blood on his truck, but there was none; it was all over the asphalt. He looked down at the dark spot on the road and dry heaved, the metallic smell of blood climbing into his nose and down his throat. After checking the front end out, he got into his truck, and drove faster than he had before. He drove like a man possessed, passing drivers on double yellow streets when he was back in town, and cutting through the church parking lot to get to his parents' house. He parked behind the garage, and walked through the backdoor, into the kitchen. His father sat at the small table doing a crossword, and greeted him without looking up from the paper. "How we doing pal? Didn't think we'd see ya' tonight, heard there was a party out in the McManis's back field. There's leftovers on the sto-" He stopped, mid-sentence and coughed. He thumbed at his now wrinkled nose, he smelled foul pond water, beer and vomit. He looked up to his son and saw the dried mud that covered his hands, and the dark water that dripped from his pants. Before he could say a word, Anthony fell to the linoleum floor sobbing, his jeans began to bleed brown liquid. It spread about like the tendrils of evil, looking for prey. His father moved his socked foot away from one of the dark trails of water, and Anthony told him everything. His father's response was grim, but not unexpected. "No one knows, and no one is gonna know, Anthony," His father said, reaching for his keys, "You aren't throwing your scholarship away on some *colored* girl. Not now. You're leaving for school in a couple weeks. You tell me where she is, and I'll take care of the rest." So, Anthony told him. His father had done what he said he would, and never spoke of that night again. Anthony left for college two weeks after, and made himself forget, and it stayed forgotten. Two state championships, and a whole lot of partying helped. Meeting a girl, getting married, and buying a house sealed the deal. It was all buried deep down, and locked away in a casket in his conscious. Now, for some reason, it was getting dug up, and the memory was kicking and scratching at the lid, desperate to sink its rotten nails and broken teeth into Anthony's soft, vulnerable mind. He *would* remember. The static faded back in, slowly at first, then it was louder than a jet engine. Anthony howled in pain and dropped his phone. Using both hands, he covered his ear and pressed hard, as if to keep his brain from oozing out. He stumbled backwards and fell on his rear. The deafening white noise was pervasive, he felt it in the fillings in his teeth, and in his guts. The phone began to vibrate from the magnitude of the sound, and scoot along the sidewalk. Suddenly, the static stopped, and Pete's voice issued from the phone. "Have." Pete said calmly. "Have, have, have, have," Pete began to scream. "HAVE, HAVE, HAVE, WE, A, HAVE, A, WE" Anthony started to cry and picked up his phone. "Petey? Where are you? What are they doing to you, Pete?" "Ay. Have. We." "Pete, I don't understand, you gotta help me here, I don't fuckin' understand!" His voice was choked with tears, he began to cry harder, "Pete please tell me where you are!" Silence. "Please?" "We have ayyyy. . ." Pete's voice trailed off and there was a click, then silence. *Fuck this*, Anthony thought as he took off running towards his home, *I'm going to go home, get my Remington and go look for Pete and the guys. They have to be somewhere, right? It doesn't make any goddamn sense, none of this makes any goddamn sense, Suzy is going to think I*\- His trail of thought snagged, he stopped dead in the middle of the last crosswalk. "Suzy! Oh Christ, Suzy!" He resumed running. This time he didn't notice any pain in his legs, or his heart, or his lungs. He only thought about Suzy. Suzy grabbed up by the shadow, t*hat fucking moaning thing. That stupid moaning bitch that took Pete and the guys, and left me all those stupid* fucking *notes.* *The notes*! Anthony's mind screamed. *Those notes! Peter was trying to warn me about something, but what?* "We have a what, Pete?" Anthony said as he approached the back door to his home. He tried the door and it was locked. *Thank God for that*, he thought as he pulled the key from his pocket, *thank God for that, Suzy is okay, she's going to think I'm a nut, but she's okay*. He unlocked his door and pushed it open with such force it slammed against the wall of the kitchen. "Suzy! Where are you honey? I need your help!" He waited for a reply for a moment, and began to feel a chill run up his back, the silence was too blanketing. It was everywhere. . . The silence was too loud. Anthony quickly turned and shut the door, locked it, and took off for the bedroom. *Maybe she's asleep*, he thought, his breath was ragged as he walked up the stairs. Fear made Anthony's vision tunnel. He could see light leaking out under the bedroom door. *Her lights on, she must've fallen asleep reading*. He mounted the top of the stairs and walked to the door. He tried to turn the handle, but his palms were so sweaty that it slipped. He wiped his hands on his shirt, grabbed it again, turned, and pushed the door open. The bed was made, but empty. On the middle of the bed was a folded piece of yellow paper. Anthony could hear nothing but the thud of his heart as he approached to pick up his note. As he got closer, he began to recite, in a dry croaky voice he didn't recognize, "We. Have. A. We. Have. A." He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. There was a click in his throat. "What exactly do you fuckers have?" He unfolded the paper and his hands began to shake. His body broke out in goosebumps, the hair on his neck stood on end. Written on the paper was the only word that had mattered. **KEY** Anthony began to scream as the closet door behind him creaked open, and the cicadas began to sing.


I WAS WALKING HEART BROKEN, DUMPED AND THROWN OUT OF OUR APARTMENT. I MEAN HIS APARTMENT NOW ONWARDS. I WAS JUST STORLLING THROUGH ROADS MY VISION WAS NOT CLEAR AS MY EYES WERE WATERY BECAUSE OF TEARS. SUDDENLY A TEENAGE BOY GRABS MY PURSE. I TRY TO HOLD IT HARDER BUT MY HANDS SLIPS AND HE GETS THE PURSE AND STARTS TO RUN. I STARTED TO RUN BEHIND HIM. I HAVE NEAR BEEN TO THIS AREA. THIS IS VERY ODD. HE HAS VANISHED. MY BAG IS HANGING ON THE WINDOW. THIS DOESN’T HAS A DOOR BUT HAS ONLY A WINDOW. I NEED TO GRAB MY BAG AS SOON AS POSSIBLE AND LEAVE. I WAS JUST GRABBING A BAG HOW I AM STANDING AT A WINDOW. I WAS PULLED BY AND SUDDEN FORCE AND WITH A THUD I FELL TO GROUND. I AM LAYING ON THE GROUNDON MY BACK. A HAND HELPS ME GET UP. HEY WAIT UP WHY IT IS A DAY? WHEN I WAS STANDING AT WINDOW IT WAS A NIGHT. “GREETINGS FOR OUR QUEEN DAY”. WHAT A QUEEN? OH! YOU HAVE REALLY GOT A NICE FAIRY OUTFIT. I THINK SO I AM IN SOMEKIND OF SHOOTING. WHAT KIND OF SHOOTING IT IS? IT IS A FLIM OR PLAY? “I AM NOT ABLE TO UNDERSTAND YOU MY QUEEN”. WATER FAIRY JUST GRAB OUR QUEEN AND TAKE HER TO DAY HOME. WHAT A DAY HOME IS? AND YOU BOTH ARE CALLING ME QUEEN? HAVE I LOST MY MIND WHEN I HAD FALL FROM WINDOW? AND I WAS PULLED INTO A BLACK HOLE. I AGAIN FELL ON WOODEN FLOOR. WHERE I AM? HOW ARE YOU PEOPLE? “YOU ARE IN BEFORE EARTH RELAM AND I AM WATER FAIRY. I GIVEN WATER FLOW AND DECIDE ITS ROUTE”. MY HEAD IS SPINNING. IT WAS YOUR FIRST TIME TO TRAVEL THROUGH PORTOL. I DON’T BELIVE YOU AND I THINK I AM LOSING MY MIND. NO, MY QUEEN. SUNSHINE! ANUTY, THANK GOD YOU ARE HERE. I THINK I AM LOSING MY MIND. NO, MY CHILD. I AM HERE FOR YOU. DRINK THIS WATER IT WILL BE ABLE TO HELP YOU. ANUTY THIS WATER TASTE SO DIFFERENT. MY HEAD IS SPINING. MY LADY DAYLIGHT WHAT SHOULD WE DO WITH OUR QUEEN KNOW? I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING. IT IS BECAUSE SHE IS LEAVING IN MORTAL WORLD FOR LONGTIME. WHEN SHE WILL GET UP, SHE WILL GAIN HER MEMORIES BACK. BUT NOT ALL. AND SHE IS ONLY OUR LAST HOPE. AFTER FEW HOURS. WAT..E...R.. I WANT A GLASS OF WATER. THANKGOD IT WAS A DREAM A WERID ONE THOUGH. MY QUEEN AS I HEARD THESE WORDS MY HOPE GOT SHATTERED. I..I REMEMBER MYSELF. HOW IS DARKNESS MY TWIN. SHE HAS BECOME DEVIL. SHE HAD TAKEN THE CURSE FOR BOTH OF YOU. SO, SHE IS NOT HERESELF ANYMORE. SHE NOW HAD FREE SOME SOUL SUCKERS AND SHE LED THEM TO SUCK SOUL OF OUR KINGDOM. YOU NEED TO BREAK THE CURSE. OK! SHE HELD A MEETING IN THRONE ROOM.WAIT! WHAT HAPPEN LADY DAYLIGTH? YOU CAN’T SEAT ON YOUR THRONE. YOU ARE STILL IMPURE FROM THE MORTAL RELAM. FIRST YOU NEED TO CLEAN YOUR SOUL. MY QUEEN YOU NEED IMMERSE YOURSELF IN OBIVILION WATER FOR 3 DAYS AND MEDITATE. THEN ONLY YOU CAN SEAT ON YOUR THRONE. I WILL GO ALONE TO OBIVILION WATER. BUT IT IS NOT SAFE FOR YOU TO GO ALONE. YOU KNOW LADY DAYLIGTH THE ONE WHO GUARD ME WILL BECOME THE TARGET OF SOUL SUCKERS. I CAN’T LET ANYONE GET HARM. BUT, MY QUEEN NOT NOW WATER FAIRY. LADY DAY LIGTH DON’T WORRY. I WILL SUMMON MY GRAND FATHER HE WILL HELP OUR QUEEN. MEANWHILE IN A CAVE. MY QUEEN NIGTH YOUR SISTER DAY HAS COME TO OUR RELAM AND SHE IS GOING TO MEDITATE IN OBILION WATER. MY SLAVE LORD DARK YOU GATHER SOME SOUL SUCKERS AND STOP HER. AND DON’T DISAPPIONT ME. MY QUEEN NIGTH YOUR SISTER IS ROYAL WE CAN’T DEFEAT HER. YOU TRY TO STOP HER IN MEANTIME I WILL MIX UNHOLYWATER WITH OBIVILION WATER. NOW GO. NEAR THE OBIVILION WATER POND. DARK LORD WE ALL HAVE GATHER AROUND THE LAKE NO ONE CAN PASS US. SUDDENLY SOMETHING COME FLYING ABOVE THE DARK LORD AND IT SLPASH IN WATER. EVERYONE GATHER THEIR ATTENTION TO THAT THING IT WAS STONE OF QUEEN DAY. WHO EVER GRABS IT WILL BECOME POWERFUL, EACH AND EVERYONE TRIES TO GRAB IT. IN BETWEEN I JUMP INTO OBIVILION WATER. YOU FOOLS THAT STONE IS ARTIFICAL. I START TO MEDITATE. MEAN WHILE HOW CAN YOU LET THIS HAPPEN DARK LORD? I HAD JUST GIVEN YOU SMALL TASK AND YOU CAN’T COMPLETE IT. HOW CAN YOU BECOME DARK LORD? I STRIP YOU FROM YOUR TITLE. I MYSELF WILL STOP HER. AT OBIVILION WATER POND. HER MY TWIN SISTER DAY IS MEDITATING. AFTER SEEING HER FOR LONG TIME I STARTED TO HAVE HEADACHES. IN THAT MOVEMENT A FIGURE FORMED IN WATER. IT WAS WATER GOD. “QUEEN DAY” AS I OPEN MY EYES FROM MEDITATION, I SAW WATER GOD. AND NEAR BY MY TWIN SISTER NIGTH. SHE WAS DEFINITELY NOT HERSELF. I PAY MY RESPECTS TO WATER GOD. “QUEEN DAY IT’S TIME FOR YOU TO PERFORM YOUR RITUAL AND BREAK THE CUSRE. YOU NEED TO MIX HOLY WATER, OBIVILION WATER, YOUR BLOOD, YOUR SISTER’S BLOOD AND TAKE THIS HEAVEN WATER AND MAKE YOUR SISTER DRINK IT”. I DEED SAME AS INSTRUCTED AND NIGTH FELL IN SLEEP. BUT I WAS HAPPY. MY OTHER HALF, MY BESTFRIEND, MY FAMILY, MY TWIN SISTER IS FINE. QUEEN DAY, YOUR SISTER HAS OPENED HER EYES. WITH IN FEW WEEKS EVERYTHING WAS BACK TO NORMAL. WE BOTH WERE RULING OUR KINGDOM HAPPILY TOGETHER. ALTHOUGH WE SHARE FEW MOMENTS TOGETHER WHICH IN EVENING OR BEFORE MORNING. I DECIDE TO TAKE A TRIP AND I REACHED THE SPOT WHERE I HAVE ENTERED IN THIS REALEM. THERE IS WINDOW PRESENT. I TRY TO PEEK THROUGH WINDOW. AND I FALL FROM IT. I HAVE MY BAG. I CANCEL MY BOOKINGS TO HOTEL. AND REACH AT MY HOME AND FACE THE BITCH MY BOYFRIEND’S NEW GIRLFRIEND I MEAN EX BOYFRIEND. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE”? IT IS MY HOME AND I WILL DO WHAT TRUTHFULLY IS RIGTH. I WILL THORW YOU AND YOUR BOYFRIEND OUT OF THIS HOUSE. YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING. I CAN DO THINGS WHICH YOU CAN’T IMAGINE SO, DON’T TRY MY PAITENCE AND CALL HIM. HONEY YOUR EX IS HERE. I JUST THREW YOU OUT OF MY HOME AND YOU CAME BACK CRAWLING YOU DON’T HAVE SHAME, DO YOU? I GAVE HIM TIGTH SLAP AND SAID YOU DON’T HAVE SHAME THIS HOME BELONGS TO ME YOU MADE ME TO NAME IT YOU. HOW IS GOING TO BELIVE IT? YES, I HAVE ROBBED YOU. I MADE YOU NAME THIS HOUSE TO ME. BUT YOU ARE FOOL YOU DID THIS. YOU HAVE KNOW PROOF. AND IF YOU TRY TO GAIN PROOF, I WILL KILL YOU. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST MR. STUART FOR ILLEGALY GAINING THE PROPERTIES FROM YOUR GIRLFRIEND AND GIVING HER DEATH THEARTS. I HAVE UNDERSTOOD IF THERE IS DARK THEN THERE IS ALSO LIGTH. WE JUST NEED TO CHOOSE RIGTH PATH.


When I was a kid, I went to see my grandparents and cousins a lot in East Tennessee. My parents and I made the trip every third weekend to see them. It was about two hours North of where we lived. Some of my fondest memories are tied to visiting them in the extremely rural, deeply-religious community where they lived. Those early events are forever etched in my mind. In many ways, my cousins were more like brothers back then. We were incredibly close and spent countless hours exploring the woods and valleys of the close-knit, highly superstitious farm town. Later in my teen years, my cousins and I would drive up to Oak Ridge or Knoxville to explore the nightlife of ‘the big city’. After I grew up and got married, my visits ‘back home’ to see that side of the family were infrequent, at best. The reasons were complicated and unimportant here but I suppose it was mostly just a matter of ‘life getting in the way’. As time passed and the older members of my family passed away, I drifted apart from my cousins. Eventually my only reason to go back was to attend funerals. The deceased members of my family are all buried in the same ‘Primitive Baptist’ churchyard, just up the road from my grandparents modest home. Out of reverence, I walked through the church cemetery the last time I was there. I wanted to view all our family headstones, among the other ‘permanent occupants’. Besides the usual floral arrangements and memorial plaques, there were also some less traditional offerings. On top of one grave-marker near the side of the road was a small pink telephone. That struck me as being very odd. Then it dawned on me what a toy decoration like that implied. I was deeply saddened by the idea that a little girl had been laid to rest in the graveyard so early in her life. I didn’t stop by to read the name. It was too depressing. I just kept walking toward the section with my family members. I might not have given the matter another thought had it not been for a very peculiar event that occurred later that night. I drove into town to revisit my old teenage hangouts and bask in the past. As with many things, the luster of ‘memory lane’ had tarnished over time. Nostalgia inspired me to relive the good times of my youth but it wasn’t the same without my cousins there. I realized how futile it was chasing memories. Soon enough I decided to head back to my grandparents home. The drive back seemed inordinately long. Traveling down those country roads, I’d somehow gotten a bit ahead of myself. I imagined getting out of my car and walking inside before I’d even made it past the church and railroad crossing. About a mile from my grandparent’s house, my car began to sputter and rapidly lose power. Under the remaining inertial momentum alone, I made it to the church parking lot before it completely died. As far as ‘car trouble’ goes, there were far worse places to break down than a half mile from your destination, but it was still quite distressing. It was a moonless night and the sole church security light cast eerie shadows on the adjacent gravestones. I locked the door to my car and started briskly walking back home. With the exception of an occasional passing car or an owl screeching in the nearby woods, it was deathly quiet. Too quiet. I was almost past the unpleasantness of the cemetery when I heard a distinctive sound cut through the cool night air. I couldn’t believe my ears. It was that pink toy telephone on the child’s headstone. From out of nowhere it began to ‘ring’ incessantly. I assumed it was just an electronic gadget that rang on regular occasions but I don’t mind admitting that I picked up my pace considerably. It creeped me the hell out and I was almost at a full trot when I stopped myself. I have always considered myself rational and not given to superstition, and yet here I was virtually sprinting away from a child’s toy. I felt foolish and wanted to prove that I wasn’t really afraid. Perhaps I was trying too hard to convince myself but I deliberately turned and walked back toward the ringing toy. In the faint light of the church security bulb and the tall hardwoods dotting the landscape, it was just a faint outline on the top of the headstone. I hesitated for just a moment as it continued to ring. Slowly I reached for the tiny receiver. I could hardly believe what I was doing. It was equal parts silly and terrifying. Regardless of the paralyzing fear welling up inside me, I instinctually still said: “Hello?” After all, it’s just what you do whenever you answer a telephone. In my wildest dreams however, I didn’t expect for there to be an answer. Honestly, I’m not sure what I hoped would happen but as naive or downright stupid as it might sound, I was genuinely surprised by what came next. “Heyyyyy! It’s Carrie. Do you know where my Mommy is? I can’t seem to find her. She’s going to be very mad at me for staying out after dark. I’m kinda scared.” I stood there, speechless. Stunned. Trembling in fear and wondering if I was dreaming or hallucinating. As a self-dubbed ‘man of reason’ I never expected to have a supernatural experience and yet, the spirit of a young girl named Carrie was on the other side of the line. It was really happening. The tiny pink toy in my hand was somehow a spiritual conduit between two worlds. Perhaps even more bizarre than the surreal circumstances, I was being asked a question that I didn’t know how to answer. I didn’t possess any of the facts or know her mother. It was impossible for me to offer her an appropriate response. Realizing the dead child was still anxiously waiting, I opted to offer the sort of answer you’d give a person with dementia. Neither would be aware of their diminished awareness so it made sense to give her comforting answers instead. “Carrie, your mother isn’t mad at you. She loves you! She wanted me to tell you to lie down beside these stones and she will come for you as soon as she can. Just try to take a little nap, ok?” “Ok. Thank you! Ahhh Mister, you don’t have to walk anymore. I think your car will go now.” I told little Carrie goodbye and hung up the receiver. It was my first and possibly only supernatural ‘call’. I sincerely hope her family comes to visit her again soon at the gravesite. I’m not certain what she could and couldn’t understand about the real truth but hopefully she could at least recognize my sincerity. As she mysteriously alluded to, my car did start right up; as if it never had an issue at all. Once back at my grandparents home, I kept the whole experience to myself. It was just between Carrie and I.


There were six of us sat around that table in The Crown on New Year’s Eve. The same six of us who met in the pub nearly every week; Dave, Chris, Tony, Karl, Simon, and me. Doing what we always did; drinking lots of beers and taking the mickey out of each other. We had all made New Year’s resolutions previous years, big fanfare announcements to the rest of the boys. Promises to give up bad habits, or to take up something new, change something in our personality, trying to better ourselves. None of them ever stuck, so we had a new idea this year, make secret resolutions. Not tell each other what they were. Instead, we would write them on a piece of paper, put that in our wallets, and then the following year we would reveal them to the others and see how well we did. Or more likely, how badly we did. So, we sat there in the pub drinking pints like they were going out of fashion, and each of us wrote some words on pieces of paper, one by one, as only Chris had a pen, then folded them and slipped them into our wallets. My own was simple, poorly written by alcohol impaired hands, “I will change nothing.” How could I fail? It would be easy. How little did I know then. In a haze the following morning I thought about our resolutions and wanted to check mine. I stumbled about the flat searching for my jeans, only to find them hanging off the handle of the fridge door. I got my wallet out and retrieved the piece of paper I’d written on the night before. Only the words I found there bore no resemblance to what I thought I had written. The writing wasn’t mine either, and far too neat to have been written under the influence. And it wasn’t as if what was written was even possible. “I resolve to take up whatever activity the other five gave up on their written resolutions this year. I will continue to do these activities until such time as the resolution has been broken by the person who wrote it.” I laughed, I didn’t know what the others’ resolutions were, so how could I possibly take up anything if I didn’t know what it was? I folded up the paper and put it back in my wallet anyway and went to make myself a cup of coffee. For some reason I just fancied one. It took me a few minutes to find the jar of instant coffee, stuck away in the back of a cupboard. Lord knows how long it had been there, but it took a few attempts to smash some granules loose of the lump it had become. I’d need to go and buy some new, I couldn’t be doing this a few times a day. So, after drinking my cup of coffee, which was more bitter than I had remembered coffee being, I threw some clothes on and went out. It was New Year’s Day so there wasn’t going to be much open, but the Best One up at the parade of shops would be, they were always open. I’d seen they were even open on Christmas Day, no rest for some nowadays. They had more brands of coffee than I expected they would, and not all of it instant, though the filter and cafetiere coffee would have to wait for another day; I’d need to get a proper coffee machine or cafetiere first. I put the coffee down on the counter and asked for twenty Benson & Hedges as well. I was surprised to see the box covered in images of cancerous cells. I was expecting the classic gold coloured box I remembered from years ago. I paid and took the bag they’d put the items in and left the shop, took the cigarettes out of the bag, took the film wrap off the packet and took one out and stuck it in my mouth. Only to realise I didn’t have a lighter or matches to light it with. Back into the shop to get a lighter then. I lit it and coughed with the first inhalation of smoke. I wasn’t used to smoke; it must have been ten years or so since I’d last had a cigarette. Yet the cough didn’t put me off, and I took another drag and started to walk towards home. Only for the bright lights of the bookies to call to me. I was surprised they were open, and as I walked in, I was shouted at that there was no smoking allowed. Another thing that was different from my memories. Bookies used to be smoked filled dens of iniquity when my dad used to go in them. I supposed that stopped at the same time they banned smoking in pubs. I finished the cigarette, stubbed it out on the wall and went back into the bookies. Only to realise I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even know what events were on. Did they have horse racing on New Year’s Day? In the end I had to get the girl behind the counter to help me fill out a betting slip. The horse lost, but that didn’t deter me. I put bet after bet on races as they happened, bet on football matches, and even on the darts. And whilst waiting for results I played on their casino style fruit machines. I had a couple of wins but was probably the fat end of two hundred quid down by the time I was asked to leave as they were closing. I didn’t realise I’d been in there so long, but it was dark when I left, and I lit another cigarette as I wandered home. Four coffees and half a pack of cigarettes later I went to bed, but found myself too wired to sleep, the caffeine I supposed. So, I started some tidying up, putting stuff away, emptying the bins and generally clearing up. Whilst doing so I found a few of my girlfriend’s clothes in the airing cupboard. And before I knew it, I had them on, surprised by how well they fit me, and how comfortable they felt on me. So much so I wore them to bed and slept like a baby. The next morning, I got up and reluctantly took my girlfriend’s clothes off, got dressed in my own clothes, had a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and headed into town. I needed to do some shopping. Argos for a filter coffee machine and a cafetiere, Costa for a coffee, Sainsbury’s for some filter coffee and cigarettes, Starbucks for a coffee, and then into the charity shop. Usually, it would be for books and records, but instead I found myself perusing the women’s clothing. And buying skirts, blouses, dresses, and even some shoes, and a long coat. Only to nearly leave the lot in the bookies after a couple of hours of gambling. And losses. I went out that evening, wearing some of the clothes I bought at the charity shop, and I just hung about in the alley behind the local parade of shops, where there were no lights shining the way, hidden between the dumpsters. I stood there waiting until I heard footsteps, and then I stepped out in front of the person walking past, not knowing who they were, male or female, old or young, tall, or short. And then the knife was in my hand, I had no recollection of even bringing the knife - the big carving one from the wooden block in my kitchen - and then it was in them. It was a man, in their thirties or possibly forties, and they looked shocked. Whether it was at me dressed in women’s clothing, or at the knife that was now stuck in between his ribs, I wasn’t sure. He slumped to the ground, never crying out. I found that I was more prepared than I thought possible. I had just killed a man, yet felt nothing, I opened one of the dumpsters, took out a load of the black sacks full of who knows what, and then lifted the man into the dumpster and put all the black sacks back in on top of him. And headed back to the flat as if nothing had happened. It took ten minutes from getting into my flat for the crashing realisation of what I’d done to hit me. I passed the mirror in the hall and saw the blood on the clothes I was wearing. The blood of the man I’d just coldly killed and dumped. I ran to the bathroom and vomited my guts up, retching long after there was nothing left in my stomach. Although it would appear I only had coffee in there. I took the clothes off, and put them in a bin bag, had a long shower, got dressed in my usual clothes and took the bin bag and put in the bins of the next block of flats to mine. As I walked back to the flat sucking on a B&H I had the dawning realisation that I was doing five new things. The coffee, the cigarettes, the gambling, the cross dressing, and now the murdering. I spent the rest of the evening and most of the night thinking about which of my friends had had these habits. Things I had never noticed about them. Things I never knew about them. Things I didn’t want to know about them. Could I look at any of them in the same way. Their previous behaviours, the ones they had resolved to give up were going to cost me. My health, my job, my flat, my girlfriend, and my liberty if I didn’t sort them out. The cigarettes and coffee weren’t too bad apart from to my health, the gambling was more of an issue if I carried on spending at the rate, I had for the last two days. The women’s clothes were going to be an issue if Sue caught me doing it, especially in her own clothes. But the murder was off the scale. I needed them to start doing what they used to, and soon. But how could I get them to start over? For the next few days, I kept myself barricaded in the flat, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes whilst wandering around in women’s clothes - refusing to see Sue, and declining invites to meet the others in the pub. I opened half a dozen online gambling accounts to pass the time, all whilst keeping an eye on the local news, looking out for a story about a dead body being found. I hung as far out of the bathroom window as I could a couple of times to have a look if there was any activity in the alley behind the shops, but there was nothing. Until the missing person plea on Facebook. I recognised the picture immediately, and I knew where they were, not that it would help those looking for him. I’d seen lots of these appeals before, and now wondered about them. Could they be other victims? How many had one of my friends murdered? I took a swig of coffee. And spat it back out. I hated coffee, what the hell was I doing? And I breathed a sigh of relief. Whichever of my friends had given up coffee as a resolution had failed after only a few days. Perhaps there was hope. After having rung in sick for a couple of days I went back to work on the Wednesday. And was distracted all day. The knickers and bra I wore weren’t really big enough and cut into me, and they were as irritating as hell, I needed to get rid of them, and by lunch I had, they were dumped into the bin in the toilets, it should be an interesting find for the cleaners. Then there were the cigarette breaks and the dirty looks from some of the others in the office. Plus, I found that not all of the gambling sites were blocked on the work internet. I couldn’t wait to get out at five and head home. There was no rush, I trudged alongside the canal, a route I walked many times, even in the dark the chalky white path lit up against the murky darkness of the water it ran alongside. As I walked along smoking, I could see someone walking towards me. I bent down and picked up a rock from the edge of the path and as they drew level with me, I smashed the rock down on their head and pushed them into the canal. They landed face down and I watched as the water gently took them alongside the path in the direction I was walking. There was no movement, no attempt to try and get their head above the surface. No one could hold their breath for that long, they were dead, and I picked up the pace and continued to head for home. Once there, another bout of vomiting came as the enormity of what I’d done hit me again. I’d killed two people in under a week. I needed to find out who it was who had been killing people before. And so, I called around and arranged to meet everyone on the Friday night. I didn’t tell them it was about their resolutions. Work was still awkward, although it would appear I had lost the need to dress in women’s clothes. There was a report on the news about a man had been found drowned in the canal with a head injury. But the reports suggested that there were no suspicions of foul play, that it looked as if it was a tragic accident. The sigh of relief must have been heard all around the office. I just hoped the sob that followed as I read the man was a father of four wasn’t. More relief came on the Friday, I was in the middle of cigarette break number four when I coughed again and spat out the cigarette I was smoking, trying to spit out the disgusting taste of it in my mouth and lungs. The smoker had taken their habit back up, lasting a little over a week. I was down to two now. The biggest threat to my bank account, and the biggest threat to the population at large. I got to the pub early, bought myself a drink and went to feed the fruit machine. They used to be coin operated only years ago, but nowadays they took notes and cards. The thing was I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I didn’t know when to hold, or what the features did, I was just blindly pushing buttons and hoping for the best. As I was doing so, Karl sidled up to the fruit machine and started telling me where I was going wrong. I asked him to show me what I should be doing, and he stepped in to take control. A few spins later there was eighty quid in winnings spilling out of the machine. I took it and turned my back on the machine. I think it was safe to say Karl was the secret gambler amongst us. When everyone was there and we’d had a couple of beers I began to tell them of the strange things that had happened around the resolutions and the strange one I had found in my wallet the morning after, and without mentioning what I’d taken up I told them I’d picked up five new habits this year. They all laughed, more at me than with me, and there were a couple of uncomfortable looking lads around the table. At the end of the night, I still hadn’t worked out who was the murderer, Dave and Tony had looked the most uncomfortable as I had been talking about the resolutions, and no one had wanted to share their piece of paper yet. I left with Simon as he lived close to me, and as we walked alongside the church, he said he wanted to show me one of the gravestones. I laughed and said wouldn’t it be easier to see it in the light, but he insisted and so I followed him into the graveyard. As I stand here now, I realise I have made a mistake. Simon is standing next to a new headstone, shiny pink marble amongst the dark slate. Gold printed letters on the headstone. I recognise the name, we all knew Danny, he had hung himself three years ago. “Only he didn’t,” Simon said, “he wrote the note, but couldn’t go through with it, so I helped him complete. Pushed him off the banister and watched him swing there, fighting to get out of the noose he had tied for himself. I enjoyed it. Enjoyed it so much I started finding random people to kill, making it seem like accidents or hiding the body so well they weren’t found.” I’m flabbergasted, of all of us Simon would be the one I’d least expect to be a killer. “It was my resolution to give up killing people, but I like it too much, even after a week I’m missing it, but then you’d know about that now wouldn’t you. I will take the burden off you though, I will kill again, but as you know my secret, you can’t be allowed to go running around telling people.” And then I saw the knife in his hand, I saw it as it entered my chest, felt the cold metal penetrate my skin and then I felt nothing.


It is often said that “behind every great man stands an even greater woman.” Although this is a true statement, it is rarely discussed that many times, every fantastic woman has an incredible man for backup. That lucky guy is me. I’m the backup. Or sidekick, if you will. I never planned on being a superhero or even one’s second in command; the entire situation fell into my lap one day. I was going to be a psychiatrist, stockbroker, or something important that makes a butt load of money. But it seemed that there was another plan awaiting me. One that doesn’t pay nearly as much as one would think. Not that I’m complaining. Oh, the times we used to have. In the 90s, The Mrs. and I ruled the Metro. Not only were we at every hot party, but we were also usually the best dressed. Everyone either loved or hated us. Or loved to hate us. We were the “it couple.” All of the populace wanted to be in our day planner. Not only were we saving the world, but we were on top of it. We were at a party full of burgeoning superheroes the night we met. I knew who she was, as you couldn’t miss her posters all over town, but I tried to keep it cool, chatting with the other guest while sneaking glances at her across the room. After becoming bored with talking to the girl with the mohawk about how many piercings she had, I announced, “Who wants to drink whiskey with me?” I felt like an embarrassed child who had accidentally passed gas in class as I watched the room fall silent, and everyone just stared in my direction as if I’d asked them to attend the next NKOTB concert. I swore that I heard crickets chirping in the distance. Finally, a voice spoke up to save my embarrassment. It was her! She had an impish grin on her face as she confidently stated, “I’ll accept that challenge.” This was it. I was going to drink with the one and only “The Mrs.” Little old Bartholomew James, rubbing shoulders with Metro royalty. After that, it all just happened. We were inseparable. Going in, I had no idea what being known as a superhero would entail. But within days, my face was on the cover of every tabloid in town as The Mrs.’s new partner. Wherever we would go, flash bulbs and inane questions about our sex life followed. Save a baby in an ape’s habitat at the zoo; the cameras were there. Pick up some street meat after a long night at the club, and they were there too. It got to the point where I was checking my shower for hidden cameras before unrobing. We were THAT kind of famous. Well, at least she was, which in proximity, made me quite popular as well. As I said, The Mrs. was a household name before we crossed paths, so she was used to this life. And It’s not that she did anything mind-blowing, or anything, not like the superheroes that we were used to in the press. She couldn’t make herself invisible or blow things up. Nothing awesome like that; she was just there to help. A tired woman looked in a seemingly empty pantry, worried about what to feed her kids because she didn’t have the energy to go to the store; there she was, whipping up a casserole to feed them all while the mom took a well-deserved nap. A bride is hysterical because none of her plans for her dream wedding are working out; she’d appear right next to them feverously on the phone, fixing the problems one by one. A little boy falls off his bike; there she is with disinfectant and a bandage. It was all really just mother-type stuff, you know? That’s where she excelled. All those homemaker things you don’t think too much about until it’s so bad you are having a breakdown. Before you could say, “Let’s order pizza,” she handled your problem with a smile and a kind word of encouragement. Except for dirty dishes. Boy, does The Mrs. hate doing dishes. I have seen her set homes on fire and then quickly rebuild them better than they were previously. Then she would go to her shed and hand-make a new set of china for the family to use daily. All to avoid washing a single dish. You know those rooms where you can pay to break dishes and whatnot without cleaning up or buying new dishware? Yeah, The Mrs. invented that when her collection of saved dirty dishes from the past started to grow bigger than our lair. I guess all this domestic stuff was how she earned the name “The Mrs.” She spent her days flitting around helping people with household catastrophes. In the thick of it, posters were all over the Metro of her looking gorgeous with a caption that read, “The Mrs: She’ll save your life, kiss your boo-boos, and still have dinner prepared.” That still makes me chuckle every time I pass it, framed in our living room. I hope she gave her publicist a raise for that one. And I was there for all of it. Well, most of it. A man can only be involved in so many sewing circles, you know? I’d fix the bike while she handled the scrape, baste the chicken while she worked on the sides, or kill the spider that had everyone up on the furniture. We were a team. The calls for help kept coming, and we were there to answer. In an effort to keep our clients calm while she went about her business, I would try to talk to them to distract them. “Tell me, what is it that you do?” I’d ask. Usually, they would reply with whatever they did to pay the bills. To which I would reply, “No, I asked what you DO?” Before they even had a chance to answer, The Mrs. was done, and with a poof, we were gone. Leaving them problem free, but with a lot to think about. At first, I loved all the attention. In the limelight, I was truly in my element. I’d be right next to The Mrs. in every photo, smiling from ear to ear. After too many times of hearing me being referred to as Bartholomew or BJ, the press even gave me my own name. They called me “Blew Jay” because to hear the stories, I seemed to ask difficult questions and then blow away as if on the wings of a bird. Headlines would read, “Who is our happy homemaker's new beau?” Or “The Domestic Duo are at it again, saving a broken heirloom from incineration.” One even said, “The Mrs. pregnant with BJ’s love child!” They all assumed that we were a couple because we were always together. I guess it didn’t help that most quotes they would get from me were something to the effect of “I’m just here to help The Mrs.” We would laugh at the end of the day as we read of our speculated antics over dinner and a movie on the couch. And though I admit that we had our share of dalliances, we realized quickly that we were much better off as friends. Our relationship was so much more than you could put a label on. It was almost as if the universe had put us together for a specific purpose. Saving the world, one household at a time. A few years went by, and suddenly the headlines were not so glowing when it came to me. Instead of discussing all the good things I had helped with, they would be filled with veiled remarks that I was more of a villain than a hero. Things like “Blew Jay: The Master of Distraction; where is he trying to mislead YOU?” Or “His disappearing smoke gave my child asthma.” Even some as simple as “I hate him because he made me think.” It really hurt my feelings. I was just trying to help if and where I could. But they wanted to paint me to be something malicious and evil. And how is making people think a bad thing, anyway? The Mrs. kept on as if nothing was wrong, repeatedly assuring me that it would all blow over; and then laughing at her own joke. During our adventures, people would scream and throw things at me until I almost completely stopped joining her on her excursions, be it at home or the newest club in town. I think she felt kind of abandoned. But so did I. I couldn’t believe she would let people talk about me like that after all I had done for her. This led to quite a rift between us for the first time. Tensions were so high that we began getting into huge screaming matches the few times we actually ever ventured out of the lair together. Photographers no longer wanted pictures of me with her, and if they did, I would hide my face in fear of what lies the next morning’s headline would proclaim. Finally, fed up, I gave The Mrs. an ultimatum. It was either them or me. As I solemnly moved into a one-bedroom apartment across town, the headlines announced, “The Mrs. to Finally Divorce BJ the Beast.” Years went by before we even spoke again. She was still in the spotlight, so I knew which areas to avoid an accidental run-in. She continued being her. I continued being me. Just this time, we did it separately. She was right; all the hoopla against me did finally die down. Eventually, I just became known as “BJ, a cool guy to have a conversation with.” And I was fine with that. I still helped out when I could; the Metro has an incredible insect problem. But nothing like things were in our heyday. Mostly, I just kept to myself, only cursing the fact that I now had to make my own meals occasionally. Then Harry Cane invaded our beloved city. And he was strong, as strong of a villain as I had ever gone up against. Everyone was helping. Superheroes were flying in from all over to help us slay this giant. I looked over after picking up a bystander that had been knocked down by the gale-force winds caused by the evil-doer's big entrance, and there she was, cleaning a blood stain out of a gentleman's suit. We stared at each other for a minute, not knowing what to say. “Look, I went to high school with this guy. If we are going to defeat him, we will have to do it together. As a team, like we used to,” I started. “Okay,” she agreed, shaking my outstretched hand. “But to be honest, I’m at a loss. And kind of scared,” she admitted, still holding onto my hand. We held hands in silence for what felt like an eternity, trying to devise a plan while the chaos swirled around us. Finally, I had an idea. I explained that I remembered that Harry Cane was deathly allergic to sesame seeds because we’d had the same lunch period in 10th grade. In no time, Mrs. Them whipped up a batch of her famous red pepper hummus. “But how will we get him to eat it?” She asked a valid question. I thought for a second and replied, “You let me worry about that.” I tried to be reassuring while grabbing the bowl of mushed chickpea goodness. “Hey, Cane!” I yelled, turning towards my tormenter. “Well, if it isn’t little BJ?” Harry taunted me from above. “Remember all those times you gave me wedgies in chemistry class?” I dangled the bait as Harry Cane began to laugh to the point of guffaw. While his mouth was open, I thought of every time he’d even stuffed me in a locker or done something equally as humiliating and chucked that bowl right into the enemy's mouth. He was so busy laughing that he barely noticed as it slipped down his throat. Seconds later, he stopped laughing and began to choke. He stumbled around, gasping for air and taking down buildings. Then he began to swell up like a balloon. He kept getting bigger and bigger. And wreaking havoc in his wake. Shielding The Mrs. with my body, I was beginning to think that we had made a huge mistake. Until...BOOM, he popped. Just like that, he would hurt no one ever again. “Well, we did it,” she said sheepishly as the dust settled in our hair. “We sure did,” I replied, unsure of what was next. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” I said, unsure if that was the right thing to do. “Yeah. See ya,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment while we went our separate ways. The next few years were nice. Not like they were in the past, but enjoyable nonetheless. We were no longer avoiding each other, so we would run into each other at all kinds of fancy shindigs around town. We even did jobs together on occasion for old times' sake. Or she’d give me a referral if she ran across a problem she couldn’t fix, and vice versa. We had a pleasant, although not nearly as intimate, relationship. Then her mentor passed away. Big G. The man practically raised her. It was all over the news, and my heart broke her. I knew she was sitting in the lair, bawling her eyes out, surrounded by her minions, tripping all over themselves with how they could help her. She didn’t need me. But I wanted to be there. I wanted to be there for her. She was my best friend, and she was hurting. My prediction was correct, mostly. She was in the lair with all the minions and such. They brought her cocktails, rubbed her back, and vacuumed her floor. Anything they could do to make her feel better. But nothing worked. She just sat there, staring at the wall in silence. When she could muster up the energy to speak, all she said was, “Call BJ.” “I just walked in,” I replied, overhearing what she had said. Shooing away her entourage, I sat beside her with my hand on her leg. We didn’t have to talk, I knew what she was thinking. I always did. So we just sat there for a while in silence while her head swirled with all the thoughts of things that she should have told the big man. “He knew,” I whispered, turning in for a hug. As she cried into my shoulder, I held her reassuringly. At that point, we both knew that we were back together as a team. We were partners in life again. BJ and The Mrs forever. “I’m still not doing all your jobs with you, though. That sidekick thing is way behind me.” I was only half joking. Eventually, she got sick of all the glitz and glamor of celebrity, so she retired as well. We settled down in the suburbs with her ACTUAL husband. She continued to make dinner. I continued to cause trouble in a somewhat helpful way. And the husband, well, he would just sit back and laugh at our antics. The peace we’d helped so many others attempt to achieve was finally ours as a family. There is not much left of the glory that was once Blew Jay. Every once in a while, I will go into a bar for a few. As I know that I am finishing my last beer, I will start a very loud discussion with the guy next to me about whatever happens to be controversial at the time. As I watch everyone start to loudly scream their differing opinions at each other, I smile, remembering the good old days. Then I leave money on the bar and quietly slip out before anyone notices. I then head home to the dinner that I am sure The Mrs. has prepared, content with the fact that I’ve still got it. “I’m sorry,” Blew Jay shook his head slowly, coming out of the fog of memories. “What was your question?” “What was it really like to work with The Mrs? And are you sad that there are no chances for a reunion now that she has passed away?” the reporter repeated. “No need for a reunion, I was with her until her dying day, and she will always be with me in my heart,” the sadness broke him quickly out of his nostalgia-induced contentment. “How was it? It was incredible. It was the time of our lives,” BJ whispered, wiping a tear before it could fall. “Get that stupid thing out of my face, I told you, no pictures.” And with a poof, he was gone.


When I was a teen, I was very afraid of speaking to women.  Very.  If you and I have ever spoken, I don’t think you would think that of me. Maybe that’s why I wanted to tell this story. I sometimes joke about this with close friends, and I’ve always gotten a chuckle out of whoever’s listened to this. Before I start, this is a true story.  I was in a new country, with women that I found incredibly attractive. I was thirteen years old. It was my first year in this new school. I didn’t speak English very well, and kids were mean, but that didn’t stop me from becoming part of the student council. To be honest, no one in my class of ten to fifteen students wanted to. So, since I’ve always been a risk taker, I thought “Why not?”  Ran unopposed.  Won?  I attended my first student council meeting with a small mp3 that was a recorder; wanted to record the meeting in case I didn’t catch something. I never used that cheap mp3 recorder, I forgot about it when I saw her.  It’s funny when you look back and think about your thirteen-year-old self. I think my attitude towards life was a lot more honest back then. Less controlled.  At the meeting, my thought process went something like this: 1. Record the meeting. 2. Wait, who’s that beautiful mythical creature sitting across me? 3. That long black hair. 4. She seems so shy. 5. Those eyes. 6. Leave meeting. 7. It’s all good, I didn’t understand a few things, but I have that Mp3 recording. 8. Oh wait... So, I left that student council meeting after juggling between not looking at her too much and paying attention to the peers I didn’t understand. We had done a round of names so I knew she was one grade above me, and what her name was. Let’s call her Quiet.  The student council teacher representative was a Scottish woman that I liked, a bit strict, but fair. She wanted us to organise a disco night. Tasks were assigned amongst us representatives. Mine was the music. Long story short, since my sister and I had watched our fair share of teenage drama movies, I knew that asking someone to a dance was a big deal. I thought it seemed like a decent move to show my commitment to a serious relationship (at thirteen). I had a few weeks till the dance night, so I had time to get my plan into action. It was easy.  1. Catch her alone. 2. Casually speak about how bad student council tasks were. 3. Mention the dance. 4. Ask her to go with me.  First part of the plan turned out to be a lot more difficult that I thought. Women sure like to travel in packs! Lunchtime? Nope, surrounded by her ever-growing group of girlfriends. The thought of starting a conversation with my broken English in front of that group seemed to me no more dangerous that doing a haka in front of a group of lions while wearing nothing but a thong. Okay, so, not lunchtime; after student council meetings, maybe. I could casually walk in the direction of her locker, start step 2 of my brilliant plan to achieve high school romance. Sadly, she made friends with another girl in the student council... so no dance proposals after those meetings either.  This went on for a few weeks. Before I could muster the courage to speak with her, boom. Friends. Millions of them, glowing red eyes, ready to laugh at me.  I eventually gave up. The music task had already been completed, the dance was the following Friday, and the simple thought of leaving my grade students aside to spend some time with my friends from one grade below was good enough for me. Maybe I wasn’t as courageous as the heroes of the games that I loved. No problem, there’d be more dance nights, I supposed. I went down from my art class to my locker and I ran into her.  Step 1: She caught YOU alone, but let’s say “Catch her alone”. Done!  She smiled as she said:  “Hi Loud!”  She remembered my name!  My eyes opened wide as I smiled and said hi back.  She was going to the drama room, which was near my lockers, so I could walk her to them. I still remember that conversation quite well.  “So... this whole music collection was really hard!”  Step 2: Casually speak about how bad student council tasks were. Done!  “Oh yea? Me and NotSoQuiet have been having a lot of fun with the decoration”  “I bet! She looks more worried about getting attention from BlondePopularGuy!” Slowed down the walk, she matched my speed.  “So I’m not the only one that has noticed!”  “No” I laugh “He asked her to the dance the other day!”  Step 3: Mention the dance. Done!  She walked close to me, bumped her shoulder into mine playfully.  “You don’t talk a lot but you sure understand a lot!” Quiet continued saying.  At this point, most of you that know me think that I’m taking the piss, and that at no point in my life someone could have said that of me. But I’m not. I was a shy, shy teen.  I bump my shoulder back into hers. “I do talk, see me talking right now? Not much to understand there”  So the dance topic was on the air. Unexpected friendly physical contact, that I didn’t initiate, smiles all around. This was good. At this point my heart was beating hard. It’s funny, people always talk about how their hearts beat fast when they are nervous, it has never been my case. I just hear my heart beating in my ears, I feel it in my chest, in my throat, beating hard.  “So um... Did anyone ask YOU to the dance?” This was my moment. I’m a confident, thirteen year old.  “Nope! Did you ask anyone to the dance yourself?” She stopped, as she was going to go to the other building, looking at me with those big black eyes of hers. The sudden stop to the walk made it seem as if my efforts to keep this casual had gone out the window.  Months of planning coming to an end. Everything was perfect. It was a small step for me, but a great step for all men.  Step 4 ...  “Nope! Hahahaha. Anyways, gotta go! I guess I’ll see you there!”  Screw step 4! Run for your life!  Five minutes later, I was softly bumping my head on the bathroom stall door. Repeating in my language out loud:  “Dumb”  “Dumb”  “Dumb”  I did get to speak with her at the dance, we almost danced together. But that’s another story.  My partner told me that I can’t just end the story here. That, maybe giving advice would be a more meaningful end for this short read.  I think this experience, and many others, have served me well. In a more present time, I’ve been a lot more direct with women. Some would make good stories, some wouldn’t. There have been a lot of mistakes: dumb phrases, old pickup lines... I think I’ve finally found a sweet spot in which I’m comfortable enough to talk to women. If I had to say something to take away from this, it wouldn’t be the old “Grow a pair!”, “Don’t let your Quiet go to the dance without knowing how you feel!” I will leave that to Disney, they’re far more eloquent than I’ll ever be.  I’ll just say that if you ever find yourself softly banging your head against a wall, or a bathroom stall door, calling yourself “dumb”:  Do not despair.  There will be other dances. Looking back, I regret not having the guts to ask Quiet to the dance. She was a wonderful girl. Whenever I talk to teens these days, if it’s relevant, I tell them this story. They laugh, and call me silly. I’m happy to get them laughing.  I don’t know if they are as afraid of their Quiet as I was of mine.  \ If you've reached this far, thank you for taking the time to have a read. I really appreciate any feedback. English isn't my first language, so if I've gotten anything wrong. Do let me know. Once again, thanks.


We were drifting Mark and I I blamed myself, everything I touch slowly dies. "Stupid, Stupid, Stupid" I screamed into the night there was no one to hear me scream no one to hear my pain. I sobbed and heaved we used to be so close. "What do I do" What would you do when the person you love the most leaves you? What do you do with all the knowledge you have about them.? I know Marks favorite song I can still hear it like it was yesterday. "Mark" I whined loudly as he turned up the volume on the dash board. "Oh come on Jonah you know you love this song." I scowled as Uptown Girl blared through the speakers for the hunderth time. I scowled again but didn't say anything more I knew Uptown Girl is his favorite song. I blinked my eyes watering with tears in them I blinked them away as fast as I could I would not cry, I couldn't cry. I still remember his favorite ice cream flavor it's burned into my brain. "Come on Jonah stop be such a geek" Mark said to me he was stretched out on my bed hands behind his head his deep brown eyes were looking straight at me. I gulped as I let my eyes trail down further he was in a simple black jeans and black tee shirt but the tee rode up a bit making me be able to see his skull tattoo on his stomach. I looked away before Mark could see my wandering gaze and my bright red cheeks. This is Mark your friend your straight friend bad Jonah, I scolded myself lightly. "Mark we have a test tomorrow I want to be prepared." Mark looked at me with those piercing eyes just before he rolled them in annoyance. 'Come on my little geek lets get ice cream." Mark replied sitting up on my bed where he was previously laying. "But Mark" Mark raised one of his eyebrows perfectly silencing me down. "You've got this J don't worry okay you can do this but you need a break." I sighed but I could never say no to him when he called m J. It was such a simple nickname but it made my heart flutter, my head spin, and my knees feel weak. "Alright lets go" I said shaking my head and trying to hide a smile as Mark bounced up from my bed, grabbing his coat and pumping his fist in the air in victory. I fell to the ground my bottle broke effectively cutting my hand I relished in the burn and the sting it made me feel again after feeling so dull for so long. I still know how Mark never sleeps with out the window open I always was worried but Mark said he could protect himself. "Mark what if I don't know what if someone tries to break in while we sleep Mark that's not safe." Mark rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. "Jonah you don't have to worry i'll be there to protect you nothing will happen to you on my watch got it." I sighed I wasn't worried about me I was worried about Mark. "Can't you close it just for tonight please Mark." Mark huffed but walked over to the window and closed it. "Happy now I won't get any sleep tonight." Mark glared at me I rolled my eyes as I sat down on his bed and grabbed one of the blankets he had lying around. "Yes you will will watch a movie and you'l be out in no time." "No I won't but whatever." We were half way through the movie when I heard a soft snore I smiled softly as I brought my hand up to brush against Marks forehead. I feel my head was spinning and pounding it felt like someone grabbed a knife and shoved it in my head. How do I forget? Make me forget I screamed as memories of that day started to drift into my mind oh god I thought as I clutched my head. I could still feel his hands on me for the very last time the last day I would ever get to call Mark my friend. I was sitting in the hall crying my knees pulled to my chest as I heaved and sobbed, clawing at my chest. I heard feet pounding on the floor but I was to weak to even dream of getting up. "Jonah are you okay." Mark's voice came through my head I grabbed at him and he easily pulled me into his chest hugging the living daylights. "Jonah why didn't you tell me." Mark said I sighed the whole school had found out I was gay because of stupid Mary. She was mad I was friends with Mark and dug up dirt on me sharing it all over social media and telling everyone at our school. "I was scared of what you would say" I said barely above a whisper I could feel his calm heart beat which slowly soothed me. "I don't care Jonah your like my little brother." A pain hit my heart so hard like burning fire I gasped and shook harder. That's what he thinks of me his brother. "So who's the lucky guy" I looked away my cheeks were pink and wet with tear tracks. "No one" I rushed out quick to quick because Mark gave me a unimpressed look before shaking his head. "Come om who is it I wanna know so I can make sure he's good enough for you." I laughed Mark looked at me like I was insane maybe I was maybe I had finally cracked but I just couldn't stop laughing. "You Mark it's you" He removed his hands from me quick a horrified expression on his face. "I would never like you, that's disgusting god i'm not like you." He shuddered as I cried hard harder than I ever had in my whole life. "Never talk to me again" He said and walked off in the other direction. That's how I got here a bottle slicing my hand to boozed up to even care, why should I i'm poison I only destroy what I love. I could fill myself slipping into oblivion and I thought oh Mark I hope your happy.


Jasper didn’t spend as much time thinking about Audrey as she did thinking about him. Different reactions to the same situation. Audrey’s friends told her to forget about Jasper. After a while they stopped listening to her talk about his phone calls or visits, because they were so sure it wasn’t helping. “She needs to get over him,” the consensus was. “They’ve known each other five years. They’ve been... socializing... or whatever this is, for nearly two years. If he liked her like that, he’d have made a move. He just wants to be friends.” Truth be told, Jasper had not given much thought to what he wanted. He lived his life moment to moment and didn’t make many long term plans. Audrey, on the other hand, could tell you what she hoped to be doing at this time today ten years from now. After her third conversation with Jasper, she announced to her best friend that she was going to marry him. Knowing Audrey all too well, her friend replied, “Does he know that?” To which Audrey confidently declared, “No. But I don’t care if I have to wait six months or six years. He’s it.” And she did wait. Men came and went from her sphere of consciousness, and they were fine enough, but none approached the supernatural pull of Jasper. He was transcendent. Audrey had to quarantine for work during the early stages of the pandemic, so she couldn’t see Jasper in person for nearly three months. When she finally did see him, he handed her a magazine, and said “I remember you said you liked oil paintings and this has a really long article about the Met’s new exhibition. I thought you might want to read it.” Audrey knew the exhibition. It had been down for two months. “How long have you had this?” She asked, unable to mask her shock. “Oh, I don’t know. Four months, maybe?” He replied, nonplussed. “You held onto a magazine you had no interest in reading for four months just to give to me?” Audrey thought, but didn’t say. She fell more deeply for him every day. Even on the days they didn’t speak. Because on those days she interacted with other men. Ones who would cut her off when she spoke, forget intimate details she’d shared about her life, or patronizingly try to explain her own areas of speciality to her. Ones who only call when they needed something, never just to talk. Ones who didn’t even know what oil paintings were, let alone that she liked them. One night she was cleaning her kitchen when she felt her phone buzz with a message. She checked the screen and couldn’t dim the light beams shooting out of her chest as she read his name. They brightened in intensity as she read the message. “Can I call at 7?” She told him to call whenever he wanted and stopped everything she was doing, too enraptured with anticipation to lift a finger for anything other than to hit the green “answer” key. Jasper would never really have any idea about this. He wasn’t calling to make her shrivel to the floor in delight. He was calling because he wanted to talk to her. He hopped off his skateboard and pulled the door open to his apartment, making it home just in time for 7:00. “Hey.” He greeted her, flopping down on his couch. Audrey swung her legs over the arm of her easy chair and responded in kind. “How’s the big scientific research project going?” He asked, in reference to her latest Netflix binge, that she teasingly insisted she was prioritizing in the name of science. They compared movie ratings for a few minutes before the mention of some on-screen conflict organically shifted discussion towards Jasper’s imminent trip home for the holidays. With anyone else he’d just passively repeat his canned lines about things being “strained but fine,” and press on to a change of topic, but never with Audrey. Jasper had led a life of physical pain. Audrey had led a life of emotional turmoil. You don’t reach the extremes of one without some of the other, so they understood each other better than most. It enabled each to talk openly about things that otherwise remained tightly sealed. “How you feeling about seeing him?” Audrey asked, in reference to his father. The last time Jasper had been home, they’d had a fierce argument that attracted attention from the entire neighborhood. “If my mom is around, I’ve just got to sit back and take it, and hope she says something--“ “She won’t.” Audrey thought to herself, bitterly. “But if he tries anything while we’re alone, he’ll get an instant reminder that I’m not a little boy anymore.” Audrey ran her fingers through her hair, sighing. “You’ve got it handled. But you shouldn’t have to be in a defensive mode the entire time you’re there. Any of the time, really. None of this is your fault. How’s his sobriety going?” “He’s definitely struggling, but it’s fine.” “‘It’s fine,’ ugh, I guess he’s reached his limit.” Audrey thought to herself. “So, anyways, how’re your plans for the winter match up thing coming together?” Jasper continued, taking a hard turn away from his home life, confirming her suspicions. She wished he’d asked her anything but that. She had wanted to bring him to the winter match-up the college was hosting in lieu of the holiday ball they typically had. She’d hoped if she complained to him enough about not having a date he’d get the message and volunteer himself. Immediately following a sensitive conversation about potential episodes of domestic violence was not the time to ask, though. All she wanted to do was hug him right then, not kiss him. “It’s ok. Might not go, might just go home early. We’ll see.” She said, searching for something else to discuss. “But it’s virtual. You can go whether you’re home or on campus.” Jasper reasoned. Well, he had a point. She was trapped. “I don’t have anyone I really want to go with. We’ll see.” She said, a slight edge to her voice, that Jasper missed entirely. “Why not? It’s one night, make some guy’s dreams come true, go with him to the stupid thing. If you’re not having a good time you can always fake connection issues. That’s the beauty of a virtual dance. Who are your options?” After a few milliseconds, Jasper could tell from the tone of the silence what Audrey had really meant. “Oh. Man, Aud, that’s crazy. I’m sure it has nothing to do with you, but I understand it’s still really hurtful. Do you want to talk about it or should I stop bringing it up when you’re clearly giving two and three word answers?” She felt a pang reverberate through her soul as she admired how he managed to express genuine concern about her minor problem just moments after confiding his own gravely serious ones. She knew this was trivial compared to the wounds he’d just opened, so tried to restrain herself from indulging in self pity. But he had a way of drawing her innermost thoughts out of her, regardless of context. “I just don’t get it. It would be one thing if I understood it, you know? Like, if I hadn’t gone out and tried literally a hundred different guys, not even for some serious relationship, but just for this one night. Or if I didn’t have a lot to offer someone who picked me. You know what I mean? I’m not perfect, but I’m enough.” This was not the first time they’d had this conversation, and each time was surreal to Jasper, who thought Audrey walked on water. He assumed she’d have her pick of suitors. Each thought the other was out of their league. “You’re more than enough. But if it helps, you’re not missing anything,” Jasper offered. “Relationships, or even dates since that’s all you were looking for for this, are just a string of expectations to meet. When Lizette and I were together nothing I did was ever enough. Sometimes she’d call me at three in the morning just to yell at me. You don’t need that.” Audrey had never liked Lizette. And not only because she was staggeringly jealous of every second she may have gotten to spend touching Jasper. “Are you kidding? Well, I never liked her.” Audrey started. “They’re all like that,” he interjected. “Sorry to say, your species is just a little off kilter.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “They’ve all been like that?” She asked in shock. “Not exactly,” he acquiesced. “Only she’s ever called just to scream. But they all have unrealistic expectations, they’re all expensive. Most of being in a relationship is finding new ways to disappoint people. But, then again, it’s probably not that way for everybody. I’ve just got to take what I can get.” Audrey was shaking her head as though he could see it. “That’s ridiculous, Jasper. You have every good quality a person could hope to find in a partner. Each of your flaws is equaled or outmatched by a strength.” He hated being complimented and she knew it. “That’s not true. I can be very difficult to be with--“ he started. “You have a mixture of qualities some may never find all in one human being. Everyone’s looking for something different. Maybe to some women if a guy doesn’t have a certain sense of humor she can never love him, or possess an encyclopedic knowledge about golf she can never love him, or if he isn’t Catholic she can never love him, or whatever the case. But you’re everything I’ve ever looked for. Unflinchingly honest, consistently non-judgmental, infinitely curious, universally kind... You’re my prince. Anyone who makes you feel like anything less doesn’t deserve you.” Her voice caught in her throat. She was talking about how she truly saw him. To him. She hadn’t meant to do that. He always had a way to draw out what she was really thinking, no matter how inarticulate, no matter how inappropriate, no matter how dangerous. Jasper had dropped the phone as she spoke. Thankfully it was already set to speaker. The endorphins dripped down his brain like a rainstorm. But as badly as he wanted to believe her, a small evil voice in the back of his head told him she couldn’t truly mean those things. “But Aud, I’m not... I mean... I’m not all that. I’m just myself. I can get so anxious that I don’t touch my phone for a week. I can’t buy you anything beautiful. I can’t buy you anything at all. I barely made my rent this month. You’ve got a whole battle strategy laid out for every move you make and I don’t even know where I’ll be living next month. I--“ Audrey stopped him. “You are the single smartest, most empathetic, independent, and thoughtful person I’ve ever known. In the face of that, it doesn’t matter if you go silent for a week or don’t make money right now. When you do call, it’s more substantive than a years’ worth of communication with some other people. And anyone picking a man based on their bank account isn’t looking for a boyfriend, they’re looking for a second revenue stream. Totally different. Besides, when you graduate, you’ll have any job you want. Not that it matters to me. So, no more dating any Lizette’s ok?” They sat in silence for a moment. “That’s what’s so frustrating,” Audrey finally continued. “These girls have the gall to make demands of *you*? You, who already exceeds every possible measure of a man I could set? I mean, all I want is someone who will go for walks with me in the sun or lay with me in dark. Who enjoys my company and wants to share more of themselves with me than they have to hide. Is that really so much to ask? She felt her heart sink as Jasper felt at once just inches away and entire worlds apart. Jasper cleared his throat on the other end of the line, stooping down to pick up his phone from the carpeted floor. It had occurred to him to say a version of this once, but he’d just as quickly dismissed it as too risky. Too soon. Too... unlikely. “I could be those things.” He said, so low with uncertainty it was almost a whisper. “I know you can. You are. So don’t settle for psychos. Be with someone who’s going to treat you like the prince that you are.” She opined, clutching at her aching soul, watching him slip away into another pair of arms. “I, I could be those things for you, I mean,” he clarified. “If you want. We could, you know. We could give that a try.” She wasn’t saying anything. He felt his heartbeat intensify as he forced himself to appear calm on the outside. “I could take you to the virtual winter thing. You and me, we could go out. To it.” He explained, coolly. Audrey couldn’t believe what she was hearing and sat upright in her chair. She tried to steady her trembling voice. “Like friends, or...” “Like more than friends.” Jasper clarified. “If you want.” She was so glad this was a phone call and not FaceTime so he couldn’t see her well up with tears. “Yes. Definitely, definitely yes.” She manager to say before she lost her breath again. She could feel him smile. He could feel her cry. They stayed on the phone in silence for 15 minutes more before each said “Ok, bye,” simultaneously before hanging up. The end of the call marked the end of their friendship, and the start of them.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. And remember, feedback matters!   *** #This week’s challenge: **They never saw it coming.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week As always, lots of great stories were submitted this week. Tales of love, space, comedy, horror and much more. You all are doing a great job at rising to the challenge that is micro-fic! Now, I’d like to spotlight two deserving stories from this past week. Be sure to give them a read if you haven’t already! - - Submitted by u/QuiscoverFontaine - A cute story about the moment a friend becomes something more. - - Submitted by u/lingdenshlonden - A dark tale of magic and the shadows in the forest.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I had been here before, a long time ago. Back then I was just a stupid kid, not really understanding the magnitude of where I was or the opportunity presented before me. Not many people have the chance to travel to another country, to take in a new culture. Fewer people still would abuse that gift and taint it. And that’s just what I did. Stepping foot off the plane, I took my first step into this beautiful oasis. I didn’t know then that I’d meet the person that I thought would be the one. I didn’t know that he would break my heart, shatter it and taking a piece with him. He made sure it would never be whole again. He was charming, handsome, and so easygoing it was contagious. He was to be our small group’s liaison, our tour guide through our short stay on the islands. But like most girls with a crush, I wasn’t satisfied with just that. I needed more, wanted more, and I’d be damned if I didn’t get it. All it took was one late night walk along the beach, toes gently caressed by the water as it cascaded over the shoreline. It wasn’t unusual for me to take midnight strolls in this presumed paradise, but it was the first time that I laid my eyes on him outside of a professional setting. Clearly he had the same idea that I had. But not. Waves broke around his form as he swam leisurely near the shore. Water glittered off his chest in the moonlight, like little diamonds, and I was mesmerized. I knew there was more underneath his plain blue button-ups he seemed to wear every day. Tan skin dipped below the water, and as my eyes tried to follow down into the dark depths, I noticed him looking back at me, a knowing smirk on his lips. “See something you like?” It was so cliche and expected, but it still took me by surprise. My jaw hung open like the fish feet away from me. “I didn’t mean to stare,” I said as I turned to walk away. “Why don’t you join me?” he asked. I turned back and he was slowly making his way toward me and it became clear that this was an offer for more than just a midnight swim. Heat rose to my cheeks as I tried my best to keep my eyes focused on his face. If they ventured any lower and I knew I’d be in trouble. In moments he was standing before me, completely unashamed of his body. And rightfully so. He was perfect in every sense of the word. My voice failed me, and he took my hand, guiding me back into the water. As the waved soaked through my clothes, he shed them one layer at a time until I was like him, naked as the day I was born. I felt enraptured by his gaze, paying no attention to my clothes that were slowly sinking to the sandy ocean floor as the water weighed them down. * * * That is still one of the most magical nights of my life, even though I’ve tried to move on from that time in my young adult life. Those two weeks spent with that man changed me. I used to be so carefree and would wear my heart on my sleeve. I trusted people implicitly, regardless if I had just met them. I didn’t have a rough childhood, and even though I wasn’t spoiled or super wealthy, I was blessed with a stable, loving home life that taught me the value of a dollar and hard work. It took one trip after I graduated from college to strip me of my ability to love easily and aggressively, to believe that you couldn’t have it all, no matter how hard you worked. I knew that it would only be a fling with him, but I had grown to care for him in ways I couldn’t have imagines were possible. As we drove with our group back to the airport, we made a promise to each other, that we would come back two years from then and reconnect. He told me that he’d be faithful to me, that he knew I needed those years to build myself up in the career of my choice. It seemed he wanted me to live my life, to make sure it was what I wanted, but all I wanted was him by my side. Two years to the day, I showed up on the island, on the same beach where we spent our first night together, and when I saw the sun coming up, beautiful shades of orange and pink lighting up the sky, I thought maybe he forgot, that maybe he was just late. I returned every night for a week, and when he didn’t show, I felt myself crumble on the inside. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of my suffering. It was a joke. All of it, our entire short-lived relationship. That was four years ago, and while returning here to this place seems to hurt me more every time, shoving that knife deeper into my abused heart, I can’t seem to give up the hope that maybe one of these times he’ll return to me. I want my life to be like a movie. I want him to show up unexpectedly and sweep me on my feet, but my hope of that happening grows smaller as the years pass before me. I know this is going to be my last trip. This is my last night. I need to move on and find someone who will be there for me, who will keep their promises and cherish the connection that we have. I can conjure up images and thoughts of why he never came. He moved on, found someone else. He passed away from some crazy illness, he thought I’d forget our promise, take it at face value as a summer fling. But I can make this final trip a happy memory. This isn’t a goodbye, it’s a new beginning, a new start. And when the sun peaks up over the horizon tomorrow morning, I’ll use the new day to start a new chapter in my life.


For the Greater Good “I’m afraid that the Emperor has suffered a stroke.” Your voice booms out in the cavernous cathedral, greeted by quiet protests and whispers. You wait until the talking dies down, and continue. “However, fear not, my dear people. Shortly before he became ill, he made me his regent. I will be assisting in ruling the kingdom. Our Emperor speaks through me, and I hope to remedy the gaping wounds that our land still bears. The Kingdom will thrive under a new golden age, of prosperity, peace, and wealth, and I hope The Council, nobles, and gentry find it within their hearts and power to assist me.” This fine speech hangs in the air like an expensive, rare perfume, and hesitant, scattered applause meets your words. “We will meet again, tomorrow, after breaking our fast. For now, I ask that you all keep this to yourselves. It would not do for our enemies and dissenters to know that our ruler is so vulnerable.” You know, though, that this will have the opposite effect, and you’re banking on it, because you will right everything that the Emperor has done; you’ve been waiting for such an opportunity since The Divine One came into power at the young age of seventeen. Rash, emotional, and foolish, he has made quite a mess of things. If his parents had not been summoned to the sky shortly before he’d been crowned, you are sure that they would be shaking their heads in disappointment. You watch to make certain that everyone in the room has exited, already talking amongst themselves. Your plan is already working beautifully. You couldn’t do it any better if you tried. \*\* For your part, you begin your retreat to the far western chambers, where the monarch is being sequestered. You find yourself wondering if this event could be the will of the gods, or perhaps the Emperor’s own ancestors. You aren’t one to believe in cosmic events, but this seems too neat. You are broken from your thoughts by a servant running down the hall, flat, wooden shoes clacking loudly on the floor, disturbing the silence. “Grand Advisor, The Emperor is demanding your presence in his rooms at once.” The girl says, only hastily remembering her manners and curtsying, her head bowed. “Please, sir, come quickly.” “Send for some fortifying broth and some green tea, with honey,” you say to her as you walk past her, toward my ward’s chambers. You push open the double doors without knocking; if it’s as urgent as the servant makes it seem, there is no need for such formalities. “What is it, Your Majesty?” You ask, walking swiftly to the bed and kneeling down beside it, so you are at eye level with your ruler. You stare into his eyes, dead and black like lumps of coal, and he reaches toward you with his good hand, the left, to tap out a message on your arm. Long before you were ever the Emperor’s advisor, you both came up with a language of taps and clicks in order to communicate without being spied upon. His touch is like ice on your skin, and it takes all of your self-restraint not to pull away. *Tap. Tap tap tap. Click-click, tap.* Your blood chills in your veins. *“I know what you’ve done. I know you did this to me.”* All the blood flees your face, and you know it. You are caught. All the scheming, social-climbing, all the favors you’ve called in, exposed. But really, who would believe him? After all, the only way he can talk is through you. He is your puppet.