Tiny Specks They had woken to the rain falling in solid sheets, water bashing the roof, pounding the steel, the inside no longer safe, weather roaring its way in. Opening the front door they saw a rolling sea of brown water, rocks and rubble hitting the side of the house. The shock created opposite reactions. “We are moving out,” Jacko shouted above the noise. He saw her eyes on the plants they’d been growing. His rage rose with the storm, her endless crazy decisions, ignorant of her own ignorance. “What about the flowers, I’m sure I could bring some inside.” Sarah flinched when she saw his face. He’d experienced nature’s violence before, knew with every soaring muscle and vein of his body they had to escape. And she wanted to move towards the water. He pulled her back roughly, she never grasped when she must listen to him. Imagine - he could let her have her head and people would say he failed to protect his wife, watched her die rescuing some pots of flowers. “We are not going out there,” he said, closing the door and locking it, as if a bolt could hold back the power of the water. They moved around a small space in the kitchen indecisively. Seconds passed with their mouths dry, heartbeats raised. Neither touched the other but felt each other’s heat. He watched her turn towards the laptop. Then he saw the puddle of water, licking under the side door. “We are leaving, through the back, not the front. Forget those things, now we are going.” His voice thudded with certainty. He couldn’t stomach the fear in her face and turned towards their exit route, calculating the route of the unleashed river. When he turned back he saw she had piled things off the floor onto chairs and beds. He took hold of her hand and pulled her towards the other side of the house. The rear of the yard was flooding, the river spreading, speeding between the two houses. “Get on my back.” She did as she was told and he carried her through the driving water. The rain was never going to stop. The mountains had split into lakes and giants were tossing their contents over the villages. Within second they were drenched, skin sizzling with fright, eyes pushing from their sockets. Once Jacko had got her to dry, higher ground, he sped back over rocks to survey the house. Saw the river clean everything away, pots, wood, tools, an old fridge full of newly burst flowers, flicked into the brown inferno, gulped down in milliseconds. Impossible not to feel respect for such mighty indifference. He sensed her behind him and shouted above the roar: “Go back, where it’s safe. Don’t follow me.” “I want to see what’s happening,” she shouted. He turned his back waiting for her to return to the safe place he’d deposited her on minutes earlier. When he looked over his shoulder he saw she’d obeyed him. He didn’t want her anxiety pricking him, munching at his forehead, taking his attention away from what needed to be done. His friend Longshot appeared to check him and his spirits lifted in a swerve of conviction. Together they’d defeat the mud. They started to work their muscles in unison, shouting above the water, ripping away the filthy lino, forcing it out over the river or through the back door. He didn’t see his wife until she got in the way of Longshot sweeping. “I told you to stay away.” His eyes glittered with rage. “This is my house as well, how can I?” Her voice sounded funny, like a sharp twig, ready to break. He turned away quickly, calling his friend to hold an end of sand filled carpet. He didn’t like to see her moving things. She was putting them on the steps when she should have carried them up to the top, making a pile that teetered on the edge of falling, wasn’t quick enough to rescue the pillows before they tumbled into the mud. His head throbbed with the effort of not noticing what she was doing. He watched in despair as she dived for the pillows, failing to rescue them. “Why can’t you do it right? Instead you make it worse, you don’t listen to me, oh no, you go ahead and make it a disaster.” Longshot laughed nervously. “Hey Jacko, chill, she’s trying to help.” Sarah left them and without her they worked like well-sprung machines until only an inch of squelch remained. Exhausted and exhilarated, they were painted in mud, clothes stuck like skin. They noticed the rain had stopped. No water in the taps but plenty gathered in buckets. Jacko ran for clean T shirts and shorts and something fiery to drink. As they threw the rum at the back of their throats his wife returned. He could see her clothes were glued to her body and mud smeared across her arms and legs. “You have to get out of those wet clothes. I told you to stay away from the rain,” he said, guiding her to another room. “Do you want a drink?” He didn’t wait for her reply, leaving in a gallop to re-join his friend. Longshot waved his glass for more and they drank together, the rum hitting empty stomachs and radiating through their bodies. He paused in his rage. She was English and had never experienced a storm like this, didn’t know the times you were a tiny speck of nothingness. He stared at the river, white and brown foam calmer, fallen branches now visible as they rolled downstream towards the sea. Sylvie arrived, calling out: “How goes my English girl? Seen anything like this before?” Sarah emerged in clean clothes. “Never in my life. The river is like a sea, something out of the bible.” Sylvie laughed loud. “Come on chick, we got work to do.” She gathered up some buckets and headed nearer the swollen sliding mass of the river. Sarah followed, picking her way carefully over the wet rocks. Sylvie filled the buckets from a barrel full of the rainwater and swung one towards Sarah. “Here, can you carry this?” Sarah bent down and lifted the bucket, willing herself not to react to its weight, the strain that ripped through her shoulder and back. She got it to the house, having spilt a little. Sylvie was behind her, effortlessly swinging two full buckets she threw over the mud. Sarah copied her but her water sat feebly on the surface, rather than dashing the dirt. They adopted a rhythm, Sylvie bringing two buckets, or even four, to Sarah’s one, Longfoot throwing the water, Jacko sweeping it clear. “You doing good girl,” Sylvie said. “Look at them arms now, you building strength.” “If you say so,” Sarah shook her head as she glanced at her bicep and then at Sylvie’s. The words weren’t convincing but she appreciated the comforting. The floor was as close to clean as they could get it for now and all four stood back, scoping the improvement. Jacko poured more rum, offering a cup to Sylvie, hesitating before raising his eyebrow to Sarah. She always drank rum well-watered with juice. She held out her hand for a cup and copied the other woman’s movements. He noticed her shudder as it thumped down her throat and handed her the water bottle quickly. She gulped some down and smiled at him. “Better than a cup of tea. Although I might make some. Clever how you put your sockets three feet off the floor, I’ve only just worked out that’s if water gets in.” She stopped as she saw them grinning. “Electricity gone, who knows when we’ll get it back.” Jacko said. “Once the wood dries, we’ll catch a fire. Only power is the river and the sun just now.” Sarah shook her head and waved her arm round. “And the strength you have.” She wanted to say more but remembered the unstoppable, greedy, terrifying wall of water, proclaiming their flimsiness. The difference between the two understandings stretched her mind and settled her. Her, Jacko, their two friends were in a delicious calm. They’d survived as tiny specks in the face of a storm.


Sitting there, covered in spaghetti and meatballs, I reflected on my poor decisions. You must be wondering, how, and why did I end up in such a predicament!? Well, I will start from the very beginning. It all began when I turned two. Every two-year-old Amur leopard must go down to town and get some human food. All of us needed to do this to prove that we were worthy leopards. My best friend, Amara, was coming with me! I was only a day older than her but acted much more mature. The strange thing was that Amara did not think so. Anyway, we decided that we would go to a human food place and choose something that smelled good and looked good at the same time. “My mother told me that the food she tried was thin, crispy potatoes in a bag and said that she was almost caught and killed!" Amara whispered to me excitedly, her eyes shining. “We can try some grilled tigers in the food place if there are any!” I whispered back with a grin. We roared with laughter. The sooner those nasty, prey-stealing, disgraceful animals were gone, the better the forest would be. We left for town around noon, hoping to find something delicious we could try. Our parents had lectured us about safety and the usual parent talk stuff. They let us begin our adventure after they made us repeat everything they had said. As soon as we got to the road that leads to town, I began to sweat. I looked at Amara, who also looked jittery. I nudged her lightly, getting her attention immediately. “It’ll be fine. We practiced so many self-defense moves today. It will be over just before you know it.” She smiled the smile I had fallen in love with when we were just cubs. “If it’s going to be fine, then stop trembling, you frog-face!” I smirked. It was going to be fine. The town was a lot messier than I thought it would be. People walking, buying things, and even some riding on two circular wood things. We were planning to ask someone who looked nice for some good human food. We approached a fat lady, and Amara stepped forward. She bumped her head against the lady, and the lady whirled around to see Amara. Her jaw dropped open. Amara gave the lady a toothy grin, then spoke in her softest voice, “Do you recommend any good human food?” The lady screamed, catching everyone’s attention. Amara took a step back, looking startled, then looked at me. Some police were taking little wooden things out of their pockets and started to press the wood. In no time, there was a huge block of wood that came tearing over to us, making extremely loud noises. We decided to stay because we wanted to try our luck to see if it was a food truck the lady had called for us. Suddenly, mean-looking men with metal loops started to come towards us. l looked at Amara and I caught the fear flooding in her eyes. Then I started to remember. When Amara’s parents had gone to town together, her dad was caught in metal loops and killed. I looked back at the person with the metal loops, and could only think of one thing to say: “RUN!!!!” Amara immediately obeyed and sprinted towards the center of town. I looked back and saw that the men were also sprinting. I ran even faster without looking back, but I could hear the screaming sounds of the metal loop people. Other people stopped to look at us, but then also screamed and ran back to their little huts. We hit our top speeds and ran for our lives. We kept going until I looked back. When I turned ahead again, I realized that I was headed towards a pole. It was too late to turn, and I felt immense pain shooting through my skull. I saw Amara turning towards me. There was fear in her eyes. "Ambrose? Are you okay? Can you get up? Hurry!" I gasped, shivering in agony. "Go-go with-without m-m-me-" I nudged Amara forward, sending jolts pain across my head. Then I collapsed and everything went black. I woke up and found Amara sitting beside me, licking her paws. Her face lit up as she saw my opened eyes. "You're up again! How is your head? Does it hurt?" I stood up and shook myself. “I'm fine, but where are we? Where are the people?” “I dragged you here so the people with the metal loops wouldn’t find us. It also smells really good here.” She explained. “Want to just try some food here then go back home?” I asked. She nodded, and we were on our way into the human food place. There were only ten humans in the food place. We decided we would scare one of them into getting us their food, and our strategy worked perfectly. We chose one of the ladies with a lot of food on her plate. Amara growled softly and the lady took off running. So did all the others, except for one who hid behind the desk. I jumped on the table and licked my lips. The person stood up slowly, his eyes wide as the moons. I snarled at him, showing him my fangs. He bolted out of the door as fast as the wind. I bet he could have outrun the wooden thing with four wheels easily. The food had some weird long stripes of dough and some round balls of meat. I looked at the window and noticed that there was a sign that read, “Best spaghetti and meatballs in town," so I assumed this type of food was called spaghetti and meatballs. One bite and I was instantly in love. Amara was already wolfing down her fill. When she finished five of her plates, she moved to mine, and we started to compete for the last one. She shoved me away, and I decided to shove her back. She actually slipped and fell off the table! I laughed and laughed. Just as I was about to triumphantly devour the rest of the meal, Amara reached up, grabbed the disk, and dumped it on my head. I shot a wounded look at Amara, who was gladly licking the food off my head. Sitting there, covered in spaghetti and meatballs, I reflected on my poor decisions.


I hear the insects chirping outside... Morning here is always enjoyable, beautiful even, yet it's never gets easier to wake up this early. Her hair was in my face all night, but it wasn't bothersome. It smelt like flowers, or a Sunday drive with the windows down - brisk, clean, refreshing. My arm had gone slightly numb from resting it under her neck. I swear... Normally, it seems that she has hollow bones. Her frame so delicate, like a bird, but her feathers are nowhere to be found. She can still fly circles around me, though. Today it's cold and I try not to wake her with my movement. She needs her sleep. She works hard and needs to stay focused when awake. My gear is tossed in the corner of her room, per usual. Quiet and clumsy, I get my running shoes and backpack. My wristwatch glows 6:16 a.m. We will reunite by the evening. I open the door, but not before gently kissing her forehead. She mutters something. I'm not quite sure what she said. I respond, "See you soon, beautiful.


“Fancy Meeting You” Squinting into the sun as she got off the Greyhound bus, Jenna adjusted herself to the temperature immediately getting consumed by the hot Florida humidity. Being it was October and the air was already turning crisp when she had boarded the bus in the Port Authority of New York to arrive here in Venice Florida for her tropical getaway. True Venice Florida was not Bermuda but being that Jenna had never been so close to the warm breeze off the ocean, or smelled the saltwater freshness of the air, this was paradise. Jenna was immediately removed from this feeling of all-consuming joy when she felt the rather hard push of the person behind her.” Move lady”, the rather dirty man said as he pushed his way past her to get off the bus. Jenna could smell a combination of pepperoni and alcohol as the man walked off towards the terminal doors to the bus station. Jostled but not too beat up the trip had been a long one, 27 hours crammed on a bus with a few stops in rural America in between. Jenna wasn’t sure where the rude man had been coming from but understood his need to get off that bus. Adjusting her glasses Jenna headed towards the terminal door behind the fellow, albeit rude, traveler. Immediately upon entering the bust station Jenna was taken aback by the abundant presence of armed officers. As Jenna proceeded to the baggage claim gate an office dressed in black combat gear and with just as an intimidating German Shepard walking at his side looked her way and walked toward her. Jenna, having always found herself an animal lover, was not feeling keen towards an encounter with this particular K-9. The Officer strode past Jenna with an air of authority that it seems only Southern officers can emit. The dog no doubt noting Jenna’s fear looked her way ever so intently emitting the tiniest of a growl. Jenna took the final few steps to baggage claim, grabbed her black nylon travel bag, pulled up the handle with just a little too much force, and headed towards the exit sign. Without looking back and feeling just a little nervous from her past five minutes, Jenna stepped back out into the Florida heat. Even in October Venice Florida being closer to the equator than her hometown Bath Pennsylvania was registering at a humid 98 degrees today, whereas home was registering 42 degrees on the home screen of her phone. Clicking on her e-mail icon she pulled up the confirmation e-mail she had received from,” Bargainvakay”. She scrolled to the location on the e-mail of a link to a GPS directional app that would give her the way to the Bed and Breakfastl she would be staying in the Lillytrip. Pressing the walk option as this was a budget vacation, she was happy to find it was a 20-minute walk from the bus station. Taking in a deep breath of the sea air Jenna turned to her left and proceed down the sidewalk past other fellow travelers each off to their own destination. Putting on her sunglasses, travel bag rolling behind her she was taken in with the scenery. Everything here was different, whereas Bath Pennsylvania had a hard stone feel to it this town felt open in its layout. Track homes were replaced by terracotta homes each with its own characteristics. Where trees her way were beautiful in their own way with the foliage, the feeling that looking at palmtrees created a warm fuzzy feeling within her that no orange leaf ever had. Feeling spirits improved it was not long before she saw the sign for the “LillyTrip”. An oval wooden sign with the word LillyTrip handpainted over a Lilly with a frog jumping over it. Not that Jenna was a snob in the least but this was a little too down-home rustic for her liking. Behind the sign sat an old three-story house. From the look of the dilapidation of the yellow paint, the owners clearly weren’t putting revenue back into the place. For 25 dollars a night, what did she expect though? It wasn’t as if she were spending 500 a night to stay at the Manaco a beautiful mansion of a place she had passed on her walk and googled to pass time. Heading up the stone walkway she had trouble rolling her bag over the uneven stones jutting out of the ground. “Careful ur step”, a deep southern voice called out to her as the screen door with a ripped screen screeched open with hinges that desperately needed to be oiled. Shuffling more than walking an old man emerged onto the old wooden deck. “Aint had a mason out here in a while, walkways kinda tricky”. Jenna saw what appeared to be a man well into his sixties with the look of one that had spent their life in the sun. His face looked like it pucked when he smiled and it seemed like he was missing a few teeth. “Hi”, Jenna said as she lumbered up the remains of the walkway. “I’m Jenna, I booked a room with you for the weekend”. Taking care not to fall as she carried her travel bag up the rickety stairs. “Ahh, sure we was expecting you, come rite in Lil Mam”. The man said as he stepped out of the way so Jenna could enter. “Welcome to the Lillytrip”. Jenna’s eyes adjusted to the dim light within, seeing that the interior was as eroded as the exterior. Old couches and an even older rug appeared to be the lobby of sorts. Not sure what to make of it all she turned to the man and said hesitantly, “Doesnt do the description on Bargainvaykay justice”. “Yup”, the man said, “we sure proud of the place”. Extending his hand toward what appeared to be the stairway upstairs. “We just got done remodeling the upstairs, changed the single rooms to bunks to make it a hostel was my grandson’s idea. Said we bring more people offering cheaper rates”. “What”? Jenna said with great agitation. “What do you mean hostel? This is not a bed and breakfast”? The man, squinting a little with his left eye said “Bed and Breakfast, well we aint been that for a year now, redid the place to bring in young travelers like yourself”. Lips curling up into a smile he began to laugh. “You thought you was gonna be staying at a Bed and Breakfast for 25 dollars a night”, slapping his knee. Jenna feeling like a fool for not realizing that 25 dollars a night was a bargain for a bed and breakfast cursed herself for booking her travels through a place called “Bargenvakay”. She knew she should have trusted her gut and not booked at a place that didn’t show pictures of its rooms. “Don’t worry” the old man said, “Feller you bunkin with seems real nice, from up north to like you, a Yankee”. Laughing again releasing a little spittle. “What do you mean bunking with”?”You mean I am sharing a room with a man”? Jenna could barely contain her anger. Not only was she completely fried from the grueling Greyhound ride to Florida, but now her accommodations were at the LillyTrip hostel, not the LillyTrip B and B. Instead of unwinding in a nice bath and taking a nap in a comfy bed, she would be showering and crashing on a bunk bed. Not the dream vacation to the paradise she had envisioned all those days working longer shifts just to save a little to go on this vacation. “Lets get ya all checked in”, the old man said as he walked toward a desk cluttered with papers and mail. The man sat down at the desk and opened a laptop that lay next to a mound of papers. “Now if I could just see your credit card”. Hesitantly Jenna reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet. She didn't really want to stay at this hostel however what choices did she have, she had a small budget for this trip and she wasn't going to be spending much time inside anyway. She had come to experience the beaches not a room. Just then Jenna heard the screeching of the screen door behind her. “Ah”, the old man said rather happily, “There is your roomie now”.Jenna turned and before her stood a rather handsome man, he looked somewhat familiar. “Jenna, this is Trever he is the gentelman you will be sharing your room with”. Trever stepped forward and extended his large muscular hand, “Trever Smoten, nice to meet you”. “Trever Smoten”, Jenna exclaimed then it registered why he looked familiar. “Trever, it is me Jenna, Jenna Higgins from Bath high, what has it been 8 years since you moved away”? “Jenna Higgins”, Trever raised his arms in a hug. “This is a wonderful surprise”. Jenna returned the gesture and she was enveloped in his embrace, strong arms around her. Jenna had not seen Trever in years and he looked good. All of a sudden some time at the Lillyttrip hostel was just what she needed. Dislodging from his embrace Jenna turned to the old man, reached into her wallet, and took out her credit card, “I would love to stay”, Jenna said with more emphasis on the love than she meant. Yes, a week in tropical Florida was just what she needed. THE END


She came every night when I was a child. I was terrified whenever my parents told me it was time to go to bed. I didn’t want to go to bed because she’d be there in the night. *Her.* The Woman in the Red Shoes. I don’t remember when I first saw her, it seems as though she had always watched me sleep. I would beg my parents to not let her get me, and they assured me that she wasn’t real, it was just my imagination and she didn’t exist. She couldn’t hurt me. I believed them because they were my parents and my parents cared about me, they’d never let anything happen to me. Right? Every night after I was put to bed I would lay awake; terrified for hours because I knew she would be coming. It would start with footsteps. Not quiet ones like someone trying to be stealthy, it sounded like high-heels on hardwood floors. Loud clicks like punctuation marks that would slowly travel down our hallway until they reached my bedroom door. That’s when the terror would really set it. I remember the shoes most because that’s what I’d see first, the tip of the red shoes showing just past the frame of the door. They would stand there for a few minutes, I tried to time it but it changed from night tonight. Sometimes I’d just see the shoes and never see the woman. Sometimes she waited a few minutes, sometimes up to an hour. I’m not sure if she did it just to scare me more, but if so, it worked. After the shoes I’d see the hem of her dress twirl into view. It reminded me of one of those old movies in all black and white, like the dress was supposed to be in color, but the shoes took too much energy with their brightness. It was white, with big gray roses on them that I swear I somehow knew were really red. I just knew it. It was fit her legs loosely and then cinched at the waist before form fitting her upper half. I tried not to look at her face, but every night she watched me until I looked her in the eyes. She just needed to know that I saw her, and that I was watching the show she was putting on for me. Her eyes were wide as if she had been surprised, but they had meanness behind them that I could feel radiating at me from the doorway. I remember pulling the blanket up over my head a few times, but the hallway light would illuminate her shadow against the thin blanket I used during the hot summer nights, projecting the horror into my memories. Her mouth was surrounded by dark gray lips, pulled back in a grim smile that never faltered, which I also knew were meant to be red, and the skin was almost the same color as the cloth of the dress, that sickly, just-off white. She would move closer slowly each night until she stood at my bedside, the night after that she’d be kneeling next to my bed. The following night was always the worst. She would slowly kneel at the bedside and lay her head on the bed and stare at me with those wide eyes and terrible smile as I cried silently. This is how it would cycle every few weeks. She would move incrementally slower until I had no choice but to look her in the eyes and she could feed on my fear. She haunted me for years, from a young child up until my senior year of high school. We moved several times during those years and she always found me. When I moved away from my childhood home, the Woman in the Red Shoes left me. I thought perhaps I *had* dreamed her, that she was just a figment of my overactive imagination. My wife says that I talk in my sleep a lot, and sometimes I mention the Woman in Red Shoes. She wants to talk about it, but I just want to let the memories fade away as The Woman did. Sometimes when I’m lying in bed at night though, I can hear the sound of heels in my hallway. I hear them wander across the doorway of my bedroom and continue until they stop at the room at the end of the hall. I don’t tell my wife about this, it would only upset her, and with the baby coming she can’t deal with any more stress. I just have to silently come to terms with the fact that The Woman in Red Shoes is already standing at the door to the nursery where my son will soon be sleeping and waiting for him.


Is it August “It’s all wrong” Sheila yelled at John “Did you even look at it before you picked it up?” John had just got done shoveling the 6 inches of snow off the driveway when his wife came home. Coming back from the engravers, John decided to surprise his wife and put the present on the counter top. “What are you talking about?” He said as he picked up the candy dish There it was right before his eyes engraved on the bottom Ausust 15 2002 Engravers should know how to spell August he thought, maybe it should be a prerequisite. This clearly wasn’t August on the bottom of the dish, maybe if your eyes were bad that s could look like g, but again this was an engraver, engraving words not a second grader doing a school project “I’ll have them redo it tomorrow” John said as he put the candy dish back in the cardboard box. Sheila just shook her head and started to make dinner. “The Engraver Place” was 15 minutes from home. “Can I help you” the middle aged man came out to the counter. After explaining he was already in their store not more than a few hours ago, John got the candy dish out from the box. “I was just in here and picked up this candy dish” John reached into his small paper bag “I just need August 15 1985 engraved right here” John pointed to the exact place on the bottom of the candy dish. “As you can see, this says Ausust, that’s not what I wanted!” “I’ll be darned, how’d that happen” The middle aged man said “Will have to talk to the engraver... sorry” The man took down the information he needed, looked it up on the computer and said “we’ll have it for you tomorrow” John, leaving the store, thought to himself and saying out loud to himself “That probably was the engraver”. “Nobody wants to take responsibility anymore” as he chuckled. It was December 21 maybe a little late for buying presents and the days were flying by. The candy dish was going to be a Christmas present for friends they had known for 20 years. It was a running tradition that every year they would get something different to celebrate the time they met friends in a marriage counselor group. They had gotten to know each other so well during that time they decided not to go to counseling anymore and just meet with each other instead. Debbie and James had become their closest friends. The first time they met was August 15, 2002. Days were still getting shorter this time of year and John always got nostalgic remembering Christmas from a few years ago when his mother had just died. He always felt guilty thinking that his mom died a few hours sooner than she should have, and the hospice nurse had made an “in home” visit just before her passing. Although there were 5 siblings with him watching his mom it was somehow determined that it was up to John to administer the pain medication. “When you see your mom start to frown” she would say “that means she is in pain, when that happens just put a little morphine on her lips.” John spent the next 3 hours watching his mom in the living room on the hospital bed. Morphine close by if needed. His mom would open her eyes and look around occasionally, as she was drifting off into her eternal rest. She looked peaceful, with her eyes closed, almost as if she was dreaming at times. Still breathing shallow breaths but peaceful. Then came that look on her face that the hospice nurse said she would have. It was a definite frown. Because of religious reasons his mom had said she didn’t want any pain medication at the end of her life. “Hospice nurses have pain medication though, so why would we have a hospice nurse if we didn’t do what she said?” John questioned himself. John put the little drop of morphine on her lips and to his surprise he saw his mom open her eyes and look at him. She shook her head and he could swear he saw her lips move saying “you shouldn’t have done that”. Within 10 minutes she breathed her last breath. He always thought he had killed her in some way by giving her that morphine. That was 3 weeks before Christmas, a Christmas he would not forget. His mom had been gone 5 years now, hoping his mom was looking down on him and forging him by now. Things were a lot less dramatic this Christmas. Sheila and he were getting along well and they had made new friends since they moved to their new neighborhood. They had both quit drinking and had joined a church with a great pastor. It was 2 days later he got a call from the engraver that the candy dish was ready and he could pick it up. The roads were a little slick from the 6 inch snow storm making the usual 15 minute trip more like 30. The middle aged man saw John coming and appeared from the back room shortly after John arrived. The dish came in a brown paper wrapping. No need to pay for the re-engraving so John took the dish from the man, as he said “here you go” “Thanks” he said as he began to walk out. Thinking back on the last visit though, he decided to have a close look at his dish. After unwrapping he saw Augsust 15 2002. Unbelievable! Turning back to the man he said” It’s still wrong, look!” John pointed to the Augsust. They had put the g in alright, but they forgot to take out the s. “That not what I wanted!” he said. Christmas was now only 3 days away. “Will have it back to you tomorrow “, the man said “Even if we have to work on it all night” December 23 was another blistery, windy day but the sun came out. It was one of those days that looked warm. You would get a shock when you stepped outside into the 20 below wind chill. Having a remote start on his car, would make John’s car warmer before he got in, but the walk to the SUV was still treacherously icy. “Be back in a few minutes” he called to Sheila as he left. And final instructions from Sheila. “Make sure they get it right this time” The bright sunlight reflecting off of the snow made driving hazardous and on the way to the engravers he saw 2 accidents. Not wanting to be another accident he slowed down to thirty-five, then to twenty-five. A car in front of him slid into the ditch just missing him. He saw a salt truck but then he recalled he heard someone say that salt trucks didn’t do much good when the weather was this cold. Up ahead was a traffic light, this is where his ability to judge stopping distances came in handy. The light was green, then yellow. Too slippery to stop, “Oh what the hell I’ll keep going, no one will give me a ticket in this weather” he said to himself. The light was definitely red as he went cruising through it. A quarter mile down the road he heard the familiar woop woop then he saw it a police car behind him flashing the red and blue lights After a $200 ticket for running a red light because the cop was sitting at the light and he had cars on either side of him and he “just had to give him a ticket because what would the other people think, if he didn’t pull him over”. Shaken up, John arrived at “The Engraver Place and once again was greeted by the same graying middle aged man. He recognized John and disappeared to the back room on his arrival. While John gazed around. In metal tags hanging from the wall he could see engraved such thing as 50 th Anniversary, Congratulations, Baby Boy and various names. “Not one mistake among them” he thought “Here you go, I think we got it right this time” the middle-aged man said as he handed John the candy dish John looked down and there it was on the candy dish, it read August 15 2002 He turned to the man and exclaimed “Thank you, it’s just what I wanted!”


I. It was halfway through LIT 201: INTRO TO AMERICAN LITERATURE that I realized I hated American literature. Every book we read ended the same way: our plucky main character gets on a train and thinks wistfully to the past, then brightly to the future. It’s a cheap metaphor, the train, a symbol for progress, forward movement, Westward expansion, rfonwards & upwards, etc. And American stories are just like that, straight lines, like train tracks, flat, giving the illusion that you ended up somewhere different, further ahead, than when you started. Me personally, I prefer stories that close up in a nice little circle, like a snake eating its own tail. Everything is a cycle and everything repeats. Stories that convince you otherwise are liars.* * I have only a liberal arts degree from a barely accredited college to back up literary huffing-puffing, so do take this with a grain of salt. II. It was also in LIT 201: INTRO TO AMERICAN LITERATURE that I realized I was a lesbian. My love for women, as well as other gender identities who identified with lesbianism, was long-confirmed. It was the distaste for men I had trouble accepting. Lady-crushes had blown up and popped all over my life like pearly soap bubbles, and I held out hope that perhaps, one day, a nice fellow would make me feel the same way. There was a promising prospect at college even, a boygenius, chess-master extraordinaire, nearly-professional badminton player. Sad cow eyes, gangly hands forever awkwardly arranged, a pleasant smile glowing incandescent from inside -- really, he had potential. And he was so so nice. “Sweet” was the adjective thrown most his way. He was soft, a dandelion, but that’s the thing with men, beneath that niceness is either something hard and lumpy or else the cesspool of an unformed, childlike psyche absolutely horrified by adulthood and looking for a mommy-substitute. Boygenius was the latter, what a shame. And then LIT 201 asphyxiated away any last breath of hope for me & men. The books we read written by men were all so judgemental & self-assured. Man-authors think they know exactly how women work, how other men work, how life ought to be lived, so on. Every one of them thinks they’ve found The Answer and will defend it red-faced and turkey-jowled, shaking and yelling and slobbering to their little literary grace. And these were the man-geniuses who’d made it on a college syllabus, the best of the bunch, the smartest males our species had to offer, and still, such a disappointment. What chance did the common man stand to win my love? III. I got into the business of love quite young. It started when I was maybe six and excruciatingly aware that I would eventually die. I don’t know if people are born with this knowledge and then kind of forget as the alphabet and 1-2-3 crowd out infant brain-space and I just failed to forget, or if it’s a fact I wove together from loose bits of reality (the dead robin on the sidewalk, hushed whispers of some relative’s funeral, a superhero blasted with cartoon bullets). Either way, it was horrible, and it hung heavy between my ears. I suddenly stopped wanting to do anything. My parents were busy -- careers, etc -- and it took them a few days to realize I was nearing catatonia. It’s like when you have a pet fish and stop by its tank for the first time all week and peer through the aquarium-wall-algae and think oh no it’s just kind of lying there on its rock and oh shit, I don’t think I’ve fed in a week. Not that my parents didn’t feed me for a week. They just did it a bit absentmindedly, is all. They realized they’d fucked up leaving me with old people for so long, and their immediate solution to glue together the shattered bits of my psyche was lots and lots of time spent with kids my own age. What better place for that than boarding school? That was where I met my first and most enduring love, Ariadna. IV. Yes, her name really was Ariadna, and yes my lesbianism did sprout in an all-girls boarding school, the same way a dried bean shyly releases its roots atop a wet paper towel, and yes, my initial assessment of Ariadna as a perfectly flawless creature had been absolutely correct. In my 20 years of knowing her, I have discovered only one pertinent flaw in her character: Ariadna is irredeemably, irrevocably heterosexual. But that first day, we were both maybe six, and we didn’t know each other yet. I stepped squinting onto the playground, eyes watering beneath a merciless sun. My first recess carried such gravity, it made my chest hurt. Which kids would I align myself with? Those on the play-structues, on metal twisted into rocketships and pyramids? Space was limited at the top, and you had to earn your place. I watched one girl grab the metal bars, swing herself over and down, a windmill, her bloodied, calloused hands earning small, subtle, approving nods from the others perched like guardian crows. My stomach contracted into a fist. There was no way I would make it with them. The other alternative was the sandbox full of dead-eyed kids sitting still, scared, drowsy, like fish lying on ice at the supermarket. They seemed to be awaiting instruction. You didn’t want to look at them directly, or their whole hunger would bore into you, the tiny crumb of attention hitting their salivary glands. It was horrifying, realizing you probably had more in common with them than the hawks flying on the play-structures. I resigned myself to sand. Better accept defeat immediately than be pummeled to submission. One girl in the sandbox, however, did not look up. She was aflutter, tiny hands assembling, breaking things apart, moving moving moving. This was Ariadna. I eased into the sand beside her. Her tangled head shot up, her eyes locked on mine. She held up something squirmy between her thumb and pointer finger and asked dare me to eat it? As if I would be taking the greater risk by putting the dare upon her. Um. Is that a caterpillar? and of course it was a caterpillar, and she stuffed the whole fat green sausage of it into her mouth before I could authorize a dare. V. It was a K-12 boarding school, and we spent all thirteen years there, squishing the manicured wet grass of our campus with progressively larger Mary-Janes. I’ll spare the disgustingly sappy details but yes I slowly fell in love with her and never told her and though it was probably pretty obvious, it was relegated to the things-we-don’t-address basement every friendship houses. VI. We went to different colleges, and we stayed in touch but of course it wasn’t the same. We ended up in the same town in upstate New York after graduation, a horrible little coincidence. She called me every few months to try and schedule a catch-up-over-coffee, but I conveniently always happened to have my phone on silent. VII. It was also by coincidence that my grandma lived in that upstate New York town. I moved back in with her, the same grandma that raised me from ages 2-6, the same grandma whose constant creaky complaints about deteriorating teeth and hair and joints probably stitched together my early comprehension of death, and around the same time, I found out Ariadna was dating boygenius, who no longer played badminton but was still very much into chess. VIII. The morning I decided to become a writer, it snowed. The two things were of course unrelated, but still, it seemed like a sign. Ariadna had announced her engagement to boygenius a few weeks before, and it was in those few weeks that I had fallen more still than ever. These things were also unrelated. My grandmother’s slippered feet shuffled around me, a slow carousel, bringing and taking away cups of water, meals, old magazines I left untouched. I just didn’t see much of a reason to leave. Love had been the one reason, love and coffee. But I got Grandma a Mr. Coffee for Christmas, and we brewed our own coffee now in the cheap, plastic, toy-looking machine, and every attempt at love seemed to land my heart in a meatgrinder. Why bother looking with interest into the eyes of a passerby on the street, why bother feeling “!?” inside when they look back, “!!!” if they smile, if everything landed “__” and blank and empty and painful the way an empty stomach feels. But maybe I just artistically sensitive and maybe it was a good idea to monetize that sensitivity, let the world soak in through my pores, wreck its damage on my organs and convert that into text, maybe even a novel. If it was any good, I could restore balance in America’s LIT 201 syllabuses, fix the lesbian-to-man-genius ratio. IX. The morning it snowed, my grandmother said my, you’re up early, which I wasn’t, it was 1 in the afternoon, but nature had decided it was time to move on from autumn’s decay, and I couldn’t agree more. I pried myself out of bed, snapping its linen chains, brushing stray crumbs of countless meals off my sheets. In my burst of inspiration, I even threw my sheets in the laundry hamper, promising myself I’d wash them later -- my first time in weeks. I told Grandma I’m going to Starbucks and she said Why? We have coffee at home and I told her no, it wasn’t the same, I needed Atmosphere And Ambiance for my writing. Be careful, she said , it’s snowing out there. And I said, I know Grandma, and she replied it’s snowing much too early this year, it’s only October and I said I know, Grandma, it’s climate change. And she concluded with make sure you get on the right bus and I finished with of course I will. X. I didn’t get on the right bus. I ended up near Target instead. At least the snow had melted by then, liquidated by a bright, clear, harsh sun. XI. The parking lot of the Kingston Target is the weirdest place on Earth. A swatch of dirty civilization, an asphalt pad littered with broken glass and cigarette butts, placed neatly in the Catskill Mountains, which circle it like the edges of a bowl, blue and hazy and soft with autumn foliage. A train toots, thud-thudding over ancient train tracks. It’s far away, but the sound carries, so it sounds like it’s right there in your ear. It’s a reminder of a bygone time, when New York was first growing fat and industrial off infant commerce, when fancy ladies with fancy last names cruised the trains for weekend getaways in Upstate estates, when hungry advertisers commuted every morning to Manhattan, seeking glory in Times Square billboards. There’s seagulls in the parking lot too, laughing in their little bird way. Their calls seem misplaced -- you’re supposed to hear them relaxing on the beach, not pushing a grocery cart. But the Hudson River stretches wide and blue and sparkling under the Kingston bridge, and perhaps it’s enough of an ocean for them. XII. The bus wouldn’t come for another hour. I felt hot and stupid, my face sweating against my mask, my scarf. I looked like a child with overeager parents, so bundled up against a cold that had since passed -- it was no longer snowing. I thought about going into Target, but its spell is powerful, you never leave without an armful of products you don’t really need, and I worried about missing the bus when it came back again. So I deposited myself onto a red bench -- what better time to write? I balanced the laptop on my knees. And then I was looking at a blank screen. XIII. A car honked. Parking lot squabbles, I assumed, but the minivan was right in front of me, and the man in the passenger seat was staring at me, directly at me, and I thought it was an angry consumerist couple who could not stand a beggar setting camp up before their beloved red-and-white tower. But the man was familiar. Boygenius’ hairless arm dangled limp from the window. Which meant that behind the driver’s wheel was XIV. Ohmigod hi! Ariadna’s clear bell of a voice rang out. What are you doing here? I told her I was buying coffee for my grandmother at Target. We just got a Mr. Coffee I explained and my grandma loves it. Ariadna called me sweet. Like a soldier ant releasing its acids straight into my heart. Do you need a ride? she asked and my brain said no no no but my mouth said sure, why not? And then I was in the backseat, brushing aside granola crumbs, feeling as small and uncomfortable as a child squeezed in their parents’ backseat. We paused at a red light, and Ariadna whipped around towards me, cheery, fresh, a cherry plucked right from the bag, and asked Would you by any chance want to come with us? and I realized she’d been chattering away, happy as the parking lot seagulls the whole time we drove out and into the street and at the stoplight, explaining exactly where she and Boygenius were heading, exactly. I had to get back to my grandmother, she would be nervous, and my writing career! It waited like a stern, patient mother waits in the kitchen for her teeanager who’s breaking curfew. Um yeah sure I’ll come with you guys, insisted my unruly mouth. XV. Ariadna was never one to miss a season. In school, she made garlands from dried leaves and yarn for autumn, paper snowflakes for Christmas. I was never too good at cutting the latter. You’re supposed to just fold eight times and cut triangles “wherever you feel like it” but I lacked cutting-intuition and mine came out like pizzas left outside and shredded by racoons. Ariadna’s were beautiful though. I usually preferred to just help her out. Halloween now still meant she was driving Boygenius and I to a pumpkin patch. XVI. Ariadna was talking talking talking, and Boygenius didn’t respond but to say let’s make sure we get there fast, it’s gonna storm soon. I said it must be the leftover rain from that hurricane down south, and Boygenius said yep and I said isn’t it weird it’s called Hurricane Zeta? Aren’t they usually called with human names? and Boygenius responded yep they have a certain number of names set aside each year but there’s been so many hurricanes already that they went through all of them and I said dang it must be global warming and he said yep. XVII. We wandered the pumpkin patch, them holding hands, me trailing behind. I try not to stare, but I see how weak Boygenius’ grip is around Ariadna’s hand. She told me she likes her hand being held tight enough to squeeze out all the blood. It’s heartbreaking, when someone has precisely the one and only thing you want, and then takes such bad care of it. Like being a kid who wants a dog and seeing someone drag their poodle by the leash, walking too fast for the poor animal, distracted by their phone. The pumpkins seemed to grin at me, ripe and orange and finding something terribly funny. I kicked one, when no one was looking. XVIII. There was corn looming ominous, dry, rustling like old fingers on all sides. The skies were growing gray, the storm was coming soon. I never knew quite what to do with myself at a pumpkin patch. XIX. There were food vendors at the pumpkin patch, searing funnel cakes, twisting spokes of hot kebabs. The smell greased my nostrils. After Ariadna picked out a tiny, hamster-sized pumpkin for herself, we walked around, just looking. An old man sold crickets. Fried, pickled, frozen in lollipops, barbeque-flavored, mixed with pistachios. Boygenius’ face drained absolutely of color. I cannot believe people eat bugs, he whispers. That is so disgusting. I can’t believe it. If I saw someone do that, I think I’d vomit. I wanted to tell him how, funnily enough, if he could believe it, when Ariadna and I met, dot dot dot, but she looked quite alarmed, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking, and in her wide eyes I saw it said, their relationship was new, where tiny things were still being sorted out, where a small thing like eatings caterpillars as a child for fun could ruin it, and please don’t say anything. The inside of my head felt itchy. I needed to say it. I needed to say it! But that would be betrayal. Ariadna’s face was twisted in a painful bow. I quieted my unruly mouth. Her secret would be safe with me. XX. There were other attractions too, a slide built atop a hill of hay, a petting zoo with mottled goats. But Ariadna’s eyes fell to the little train, a rickety contraption, with each cabin built to accommodate a toddler and not much more. The first mad raindrops pummeled its tin roof as she and I and Boygenius squeezed in, them in the cabin ahead of me, me bent in the one behind them. As the train groaned along its humble railroad, a track circling the pumpkin patch, I watched him massage the back of her neck. It was unbearable. I looked out, at the horrifying storm clouds rolling in. They would make a lovely symbol for my next story.


My take on *the* most popular HFY sci-fi trope. One shot. *Originally posted on HFY subreddit.* \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ Robert woke bleary-eyed in an unfamiliar place. His head hurt like hell and his body was sore all over, despite having hardly stirred. Where.... what? Light. Light from above, painfully white and stabbing his frontal lobes through his eyes. He shut them quickly as he could to spare himself the agony, and rolled onto his side away from the glare. The next sensation to impart itself on his groggy brain was of the texture of tiles. he must have been on the floor of a tiled room. After what was both a lifetime and only a few minutes, Robert forced himself to sit up and look around. His body protested every movement, it felt like he had been trampled half to death.  All that changed as he took in the room. His heart jumped in his chest and adrenaline surged, washing away some of the fog from his deep sleep. The room was both familiar and strange. White tiled floor and walls. Large white metal boxes with buttons and dials. A cabinet high up with no obvious way to access it. Some sort of bin in the corner. Single light source from above. Heavily tinted observation window. A closed door. *He had been taken!* Robert deep down knew aliens were real, but why him? Why now? *Don't-panic-don't-panic-don't-panic-damn!* Ok. Deep breaths. He thought back to the last thing he could remember. maybe that would help? But his abused brain would not cooperate, and he drew a blank. Maybe not yet calm enough. Uhh, friends! After work drinks with friends! The sense of elation died before it could be fully realised, if he had a few drinks then his guard would have been down. Easy pickings for an extra-terrestrial kidnapper. As his predicament settled on his mind, Robert at least had the optimism to appreciate he wasn't shackled in any way - after a quick check to be sure of course.  Robert had planned for this kind of situation in his mind, but it couldn't compare to the real thing. Who had taken him? What did they want? It was a lot more terrifying than he could have ever imagined. After some more immeasurable time sitting on the floor, he decided to explore his cage a little. Maybe prepare himself for his first contact, get some insight into his captors' minds. But he realised his mistake as he stood - his stomach rebelled instantly, spraying hot chunks of vomit all over the white metal box controls. He must still be drugged from when he was taken. So much for hoping for a dignified first meeting. Robert managed to straightened up, and the next pressing matter made itself known to him. He had to pee, rather badly actually. How had he not noticed this before? Right, he had been drugged. Unfortunately nothing in the room so much as resembled a toilet. Maybe the white box he had just puked all over was one of some sort, but his still queasy stomach wouldn't dare let him check. His eyes found a drain in the corner of the room and his answerer became clear. Right, I'm now a prisoner. No dignity allowed.  As his body relaxed into the relief of release, Roberts eyes automatically drifted to the nearest object, the bin in the corner. It was full of rags of cloth. Did... had his unknown captors' provided him with bedding materials? Was he expected to build a nest? Did they even know he was a sapient? Business completed, he decided to investigate further. It was cloth, but not rags like he had first thought, but clothes. *Actual* human clothes. There was no rhyme or reason to what they had provided him with and most of it seemed dirty, but he was in no position to complain. Any pieces of home he was allowed was a welcome distraction from his predicament. He knew in the rational part of his mind that any links to home would become important to him as time went by. Another idea occurred to Robert. His own clothes were crumpled and splattered with his vomit, but that wasn't important as he dove his hands into every pocket he had, looking for keys, wallet, phone - anything. No such luck of course, that would have been too convenient. Still, it was worth a try.  The wall cabinet he left alone, it was probably quite sturdy for all he knew but without any visible support struts he didn't dare try and pry it open. The observation window on the other hand was not what he had first assumed. It wasn't tinted as he thought, but actually clear with some sort of heavy duty shutter closed on the other side. A window perhaps? But that made no sense, why would they give him a room with a view if he was their prisoner? Was he on a spaceship? Would there be stars on the other side? After a moments silence, waiting, listening, there was no sign that he was in a moving vehicle of any description. Unless that vehicle was a spaceship, of which case he could only guess at how it would sound. Suddenly, Robert felt more tired than he had ever felt before. Too many questions, too few answers.  That just left the door. To his immense surprise, it protested loudly but willingly opened. If that was his mysterious captors idea of security it was laughable. But the strange ultra-realistic facsimile of a human house that greeted him was not the cold sterile hallway he had been expecting. It looked like an actual living room, even if the finer details were wrong. It had stuff everywhere, as though trying to cram everything earth related into the same space. And a pantry. There was containers of every description occupying ever available horizontal surface. As Robert took in the incredulous scene, he spotted the one thing in the gloom that didn't belong. An alien. Humanoid, sparse fine white feathers hanging unkemptly in all directions from its scrawny body, as it lay face down on one of the lounges. Dead, if the sickly sweet smell was anything to go by, probably for a few days or so. Roberts heart was pounding against his ribcage with full force, his mind jumbled trying to process what he was seeing. *An actual alien!*  He had to check. It was obviously dead, but he *needed* to know. To be right after all these years of being called a loony for his beliefs. A few cautious steps and a single finger prod. It felt real alright, its some of its decaying flesh sticking to his finger in the most horrid sensation imaginable. Morbidly curious, he held his hand up to what little light was coming over his shoulder. It was yellowish and sweet smelling, having rotted to a sticky, near liquid state. He was about to prod it again harder when it *stirred,* causing Robert jo jump back in alarm! A pair of unfocused, but clearly predatory eyes appeared pointed in his direction. A barely coherent voice broke the quiet. "Awesome party Rob. Why am I covered in honey and feathers? And what were you doing in the laundry?" \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ I'm a regular author on the HFY subreddit.


In 1981 I went to France and left my mark. I drove through the center of Paris on a hot and humid August morning. Here I was in one of the world’s great cultural centers. The Eiffel Tower looked down on the cheap rented Renault as I circled the Arc de Triomphe and headed down the Champs-Elysees . I didn’t think about the historical significance of the monument or the troops from France, Germany, the UK and the US who marched through it at different times under different circumstances. I zoomed past la Louvre on the left; who cared about the Mona Lisa and the other glorious treasures inside? They could wait. As Notre Dame came up on the right, I refused to contemplate the wonderful stained glass, flying buttresses, gargoyles or the awe inspiring interior. The tour boats on the Seine and the romantic young couples who strolled along the river bank were only distractions. At each stop light I looked in every direction seeking only one thing. When the light turned green I slammed on the gas and let go of the clutch like I was driving a formula one racer instead of a miserable cheap rental car without air conditioning. My passengers must have felt like we were being chased by Russian secret agents who wanted the microfilm I had hidden in the lining of my briefcase. They asked what was wrong and I didn’t say. No one was chasing me; I was looking for something of extreme importance. In desperation I took a right on the Rue Bonaparte, thinking that I could find it in a residential neighborhood. I flew across a lovely bridge and the river that deserved my attention. Einstein was right; time is relative. In my dire need time stretched out. As each cute goddamn cafe spun past things got worse. I speed through yellow lights and slammed on the squeaky brakes when red lights demanded it. People say Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. To me it became a nightmare. Then I saw it half way up the block on the left. I jammed on the turn signal, hit the brakes, locked up the tires and waited for a gap in the traffic headed in the other direction. Gridlock. A funeral procession was crossing the street behind me. They tied up that intersection and stopped all the vehicles between me and my goal. The deceased must have been someone significant because over one hundred cars escorted him to the cemetery. I was very sorry he died. I hoped he passed in peace surrounded by his loving family, faithful dog and mistresses after a long fruitful life. But I wished he had hung on for another day or two because his goddamn funeral was messing up my day. After the traffic started flowing, I waited for a good Samaritan to let me turn left. Where’s a cop or a f’ing thoughtful person when you need them? As I waited the people behind me started honking. Screw ‘em. I saw a whole new set of rude gestures in the rear view mirror. That’s the thing about international travel - you learn so much about other cultures. Finally a saint stopped to let me through, but I had to wait for a line of school girls dressed like Madeline and her classmates. Their little hats and dresses dawdle along ignorant of my urgent need. I spun into the driveway (only grazing the last little student in the line), jumped out of the car and rushed into the office of the gas station - a couple of old pumps near the sidewalk and an ancient building with two tiny service bays Now I’m not a language person - more of a numbers guy. But I knew the key words, “Où sont les toilettes?” The lady behind the counter saw and heard another rude American. In perfect English she said, “It’s in the back of the service bays.” Without a merci beaucoup I ran into the first service bay. A mechanic worked in a pit under a Citroen. I got down on my knees and stuck my head near the oily floor to get his attention. By then I could only say one word, “toilette?” He smiled at me and pointed to a closet door in the corner of the shop. I righted myself, hustled over to the door and tried the knob. It was locked. I knocked and heard, “Un moment.” F me on a flying doughnut. After twenty torturous seconds the door opened and mechanic number two came out while wiping his hands on a rag. He smiled at this dumb American and stepped around me. As soon as he passed I saw it; I thought my God this can’t be happening. There wasn’t a porcelain fixture, just a hole in the ground with an indentation in the floor on each side of it for your feet go. If this was a number one situation, no big deal or pas grave en frances, but I had a bigger issue. Last night’s dinner, steak tartare, had worked some evil magic in my gut and the dam down there was about to break in a most cataclysmic fashion. I closed the door, turned the lock and instantly analyzed the environment like Jason Bourne - no sink - only a hose - two metal grips to hold onto while you squat - single roll of tp hanging from a wire on the wall - no soap - no paper towels - no blow dryers. Check. OK, Smith, I thought make a plan and quick. I removed my shoes, socks, pants and underwear; rolled them into a bundle and held them on top of my head. This wasn’t going to be pretty and I did not want any collateral damage. I gripped one handle and settled onto my haunches like a catcher waiting for a fast ball. Everything let loose at once like a Saturn Five rocket. All systems were go. Houston, we have lift off. Next stop - the moon. My aim was not perfect, but under the circumstances I was proud of the achievement. After the storm had passed and with the help of the hose I rinsed off the floor and myself rather well, if I do say so. I got dressed and exited the WC like my shit don’t stink James fricking Bond. With a hardy bon jour to mechanic number one and mechanic number two I danced back to the Renault and drove off into the mid-day Parisian sun a new man thinking, “What’s for lunch?”.


Mum had stuck around after lunch to make sure that we were both properly organized. She made Margaret go into a fit of embarrassment again, marveling at all of the handmade textiles that Margaret had. Margaret, when not feeling bashful and trying to hide it, proved to be quite bright and very sweet. I was glad to have made a friend out of the young satyr, despite how nervous she seemed. I also think she was grateful to have a friend too. She had mentioned during lunch that, even in her hometown of Huger, South Carolina, she didn't have very many friends. It was rather astonishing too. She was so helpful and kind, always asking what she could do next. As we worked, she told us about her family and her life in South Carolina. Her greatest ambition was to be a Potions Master, working for a Potions Research Facility. Just like my dad had been. It was the reason that she had enrolled into Trevirsa. I told her about our life in Traverse City, Michigan, including all of the rescue and rehabilitation farms that my grandparents owned. She brightened to hear about all of the work we had done and were doing for different magical creatures in the state. Finally, by the time that Margaret and I were settled, it was nearly eight-thirty in the evening. "Well, I guess it's time I took off." Mum admitted as she brushed her hands on her skirt. She had a slightly wistful look on her face as she pulled me into a hug. "Promise me you'll take care of yourself. I know you're a brave girl, just don't be foolish. Use that big brain of yours to make good choices and stay out of trouble, OK?" She murmured into my ear as she hugged me tightly. I nodded into her shoulder. "I'll be fine, Mum. I promise." I assured her. She sighed and broke away from me, keeping a hold on my hands. "Also look after Margaret, she looks like she could use the help." she added quietly, leaning in a little. Margaret still had heard what Mum had said and blushed. Mum let go of my hands and turned to Margaret. "It was nice meeting you, I hope that you two don't become strangers. I'll be around to visit every once in a while, don't be afraid to say hi." she offered, opening her arms to hug Margaret. the satyr seemed a little unsure before slowly moving to embrace Mum. After they let go, Mum winked at her and nodded to me before sweeping out of the room. I sighed, dropping wearily back into one of the wire cafe chairs. Margaret shuffled her hooves on the floor awkwardly in place. "Now what?" She asked, looking at me timidly. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back and forth, stretching my neck. "I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. I'm probably going to read a little then get to bed. My first class is at nine-thirty and I do not want to be late." I yawned. She twisted the hem of her tunic and looked a little like she was having a battle with herself. Finally, as if she had made a decision, she spoke. "K-Kiska..... I'm... um.... I'm sorry to ask this of you, but can I stay in here with you for the night? I've always shared a room with my younger sister and so I'm a little nervous to stay in my dorm alone." She looked a little tearful and scared. ***Honestly, I was a little relieved that she asked. Despite having my own room in the apartment that Mum had, I still was used to having someone else with me. I too wasn't quite ready to be fully reliant on myself yet. In a week or two, maybe........ right at that second, not in the slightest.*** "Absolutely. Grab a pillow and one or two of those bean bag chairs that you have and we'll have a right old slumber party." I replied with a sleepy grin.


Otto sat on the park bench with a shopping trolley of books beside him. On his lap a book lay open on chapter 5. It was a thick book with time-stained pages. He had fallen asleep in the spring sun. I was glad it was sunny; he had spent one too many cold and rainy nights in the open. Otto had become homeless some 20 years before. He often exclaimed, and proudly, it had been out of choice, but his sadness told of another story. I sat down beside him and waited for him to rouse. His smell was not pleasant, he preferred to read than to look to bathe every day, his work being more mental than physical he claimed never to break a sweat. It was another half hour before he woke. I had almost left, he was sleeping so soundly I had to check he was still breathing, such a peaceful moment he was in. The sun was beginning its descent, colouring peach into the clouds and giving everyone a wonderful golden glow. Otto raised his head, opened wide his mouth and eyes, and let out a loud yell oh! Then laughed and laughed until all he could do was cough. As his choking died down, he still chuckled. The passers by looked at him, some clutching tighter to their partners, others laughing, one woman even prayed. One of these ‘waking calls’ was what drew me to talk to him. He was an intellectual with a mind of wonder, one could listen to him for hours asking questions and finding ways of answering them together. He did not like to claim he was right about anything except humour. Otto decided during the war that humanity had no sense of humour. How could they when such atrocities are allowed to happen? He found laughter a medicine and would often break into a joke halfway through a philosophical conversation, a joke with no baring to the topic at hand I may add. He was an extraordinary fellow and spoke the stories he had read as if he had written them himself. I asked him what he was currently reading. He faced up to the sky and said I was not ready for this story. He, himself was forced into a meditation of sorts for which he was not prepared. The words in the pages, he said, seemed to fly out of the paper and hit the mind. He had been reading it for five months now, and each time the meditations (what I presumed sleep) intensified. He never once looked at me. I asked if he had eaten anything to which he replied with a shrug. I took an orange from my bag and placed it beside him “for later” I said. Then I noticed something peculiar about the books in the trolley, none of them had titles. There was no writing on any of the covers, not even the author’s name. “Please don’t ask me about my books.” Otto snapped This brought about a moment of silence I felt most uncomfortable with. I began to stand, when he placed his hand on my arm and sat me back down. “I am blind Sir, and these books are my eyes. I have learnt to feel my way through this sightless life without a soul knowing of my difficulty and I have I fooled them. Until today, you Sir are the first to notice the lack of letters upon the pages.


Left, right, left, right, Oh come on, why am I so indecisive now? My legs were burning from the marathon I ran. The crunch of the floor echoed just a hallway down from two doors I stood aside. The hotels cheap and worn down lifts weren’t working, and sure as hell won’t get me very far. The air was chilly, and outlined my uncontrolled breath. My thoughts raced like horses, betting on which one will win. The first door on the left was painted ebony. It was glossy and sheer. The door handle read emergency exit in a label of ever green. The other door was red and had a plain metal door handle. Growls and roars of the coniferous creature shattered and bounced off every crease in the wall. I slammed my hands against my ears and shrieked a high pitch voice. Shit shit shit, now I must make a decision. The summoning of the creature had rose from one of the hotel dorms. And it had grown with every imprisoned soul it snatched in it’s insanely giant stale and crusty legs. It almost looked like an enlarged hexapod. With the legs of a mantis and body like a spider. But with a sort of rotting human corpse feature. The creature had torn apart every living person and child in this god foresaken hotel. It all began on a peaceful Saturday morning. This holiday was new and strange, my parents never took me anywhere except the theme parks in England. We had drove to the remote island and then took a ferry. The exhausting results of the trip had caused me to pass out at seven. But I was awoken by the screams of my mother. Lying in a pool of blood with a creature the size of a puppy latched onto her neck like a leach. The mess it created could’ve been featured in some sort of gallery. The look of horror painted on my face as I stood paralysed, unable to move. My mothers limp body had laid, moving about, creating squelching sounds. Her stomach had erupted and millions of tiny creatures emerged. Either it lay eggs, or multiplied like a corroding virus desperately begging to eat away at your living soul. I didn’t waste another second. I sprinted out the hotel dorm door and slammed it shut. I tried running down the grand luxury stairs, circling and trailing to the ground floor; but it was too late. Collections and stampedes of the creatures had pigged out on anything moving. Like parasites infesting and killing its host. The stomping of my feet caught attention and I was herded back upstairs. I went down the east wing as it was away from my dorm room, and I had a better chance of escaping. But here I was. Unable to do a simply bloody thing and choose which door to go through. Ugh if my mother had just let me explore the hotel on my own maybe this wouldn’t be like solving a riddle. The crumble of the dry wall had trailed closer and as tears swam down my face like raindrops on car windows I finally got my dumb blonde brain and; red. I bolted to the right. I slammed against the heavy door, trying to open it with all my might. Pull not push Emily. I screamed even louder as I pull the door open and ran for my life. I approached a stairwell, lined with fine red carpet and tripped as the process of stopping had made it inevitable. One set of stairs going up, one going down. I couldn’t protect myself or keep the door closed. “ Emily!” The creature bellowed in a hoarse sharp whisper. It was calling to me. It sounded familiar. The thing had called my name again, but this time it sounded like a middle aged woman, wailing for her child. “ Emily!” It called in its sad soprano voice. The scratches created were high pitched, enough to make me grind my teeth in the un comforting state. I jerked my head back. My breathing felt heavy and uneasy. The hairs on my neck stood erect. The chitter of the monster sat outside like an angry cicada and then, silence. I held my breath. The snot oozing and bubbling out my nose as my sight was blurred and filled with a rain cloud of tears. All of a sudden, the eruption of tiny jitters and pitter patter of tiny legs rose and wailed behind the closed door. The underneath of the bright red door filled with a mosaic of black mass, spreading out like an angry sandstorm coming closer towards my creased and muddy white shoes. I slowly backed away from the miniscule spiders. Concurrently, as the spiders drove through the door in herds, they collided together. Mutating and shredding each other’s limbs until they collectively grow in height, curling its neck against the ceiling from the naked height. I turned and I bolted. Down, down DOWN EMILY. I yelled at myself. Punishing for myself for getting chased by a predator. I felt like meek prey. The dancing of my shoelaces around me joined together, and I tumbled down the cushioned stairs. The place was spinning. Despite the soft carpets, I didn’t realise how thin, and how much I winded myself cracking my back against the straight edges of the stairs. My whole body was flailing and contorting as the air threw me down, and down, and down. My head concussed on the dense and solid concrete walls, the impact shaking my brain, the sound of reverberating vibrations of high pitched frequencies poisoned my ears, and as I struggled to catch my breath, wincing in utter pain, my tears choking me as I tried to move, the room began to spin, like an uncontrolled fair ride I used to visit with my parents. My vision blurred for good, unable to focus. I managed to recognise the contrast and merging black colours of the spidery creature, now back in its insect form; it crawled on the wall and ceiling, bending its freaky sticky legs on all sorts of angles before emerging down the stairs and towards me...


Susan preferred to complete her daily errands just after sunrise, before the hustle and bustle of the day begins. The coffee maker had just finished dripping as she padded quietly downstairs, just enough for one cup as usual. Her favorite mug and spoon had been laid out the night before, waiting for her two pumps of hazelnut flavoring and a splash of milk. Susan thrived on routines. That morning began the same as all others: her gentle alarm humming it’s normal tune at 6 am on the dot, a quick shower, and down stairs to listen to the news and drink her cup of coffee. She’ll be out the door by 7 am sharp and not a minute later. Today she thought she might take her coffee and listen to her radio outside on her porch to watch the summer sun rise over the horizon. The ocean was calmer than usual this morning, almost completely still. There was no breeze, which made the air feel thick and heavy, even at this time of morning. Susan settled herself under her porch fan and brought her solar radio up to the top of the small table beside her rocking chair. As she fiddled with the antenna, she noticed the butterfly bush at the foot of her stairs rustle. “Good morning, Cat,” she called. She turned the dial and was met with a loud flash of angry high pitched static. Cat hissed. “Hush,” she admonished, “I’m trying to catch the signal.” It was unusual that a windless day was making the signal so difficult to catch, and Susan did not like the tenseness that was building in her shoulders because of it. “Ah, there we go,” she muttered and brought Cat up to her lap as voices came through the radio detailing the day’s weather, tides, and fish catches. “I would like to get some more shrimp for this week, don’t you think?” She said as she was stroking Cat’s back. He purred in agreement. As the news cycle made its way back around to the beginning, Susan gently took Cat off her lap and began to turn the radio off as the signal cracked and all of a sudden a voice came through screaming “THEY’RE COMING. THEY’RE COMING. THEY’RE COMING.” Startled, Susan knocked her cup of coffee over, the mug shattering as it hit the ground. She felt her shoulders lock as her spine sent tingles down her arms. She wrung her hands to soothe herself. “Nothing I can’t fix! I’ll just go clean it up,” she said to herself. A neighbor walked by with his dog and waved, and as Susan looked up, she noticed he was mouthing something she couldn’t quite make out. She shook her head and went inside to grab a towel and clean up her mess before she left for the day. Back inside, Susan was wiping her hands on a dish towel by the sink and practicing her deep breathing to help loosen her shoulders from earlier today. “It didn’t mean anything, probably just someone in their basement messing around.” She told herself. A loud bang on the window shook her out of her trance and she whipped around to look out of the window over her kitchen sink, noticing the streaks of bright red blood streaking her window. She grabbed her car keys and purse and went outside. She has tasks to complete, afterall. “This will not stop me,” she uttered as she locked her door. Cautiously she walked around to the side of her house where her kitchen window is and saw the bird, its neck broken from the force of hitting the window. She made a mental note to pick up a shovel on her outing today so she could dispose of it. “They’re coming, I had one do that to my window yesterday,” her neighbor said behind her. Susan turned around slowly, her hands in tight fists at her sides in order to hide her fear. “Do you have a shovel I can borrow, Mitch? I’d like to dispose of it before Cat finds it,” Susan asked, ignoring what he said entirely. Nothing will stop my day, she told herself. She unclentched her fists slowly and wiped them on her shorts. “They’re coming,” Mitch responded, “Susan, they’re COMING.” His eyes widened and Susan stepped back, nearly stepping on the bird’s carcass. “I-I-I have to go, before the vacationers clear out the shelves,” Susan stuttered. She pushed her way around Mitch and got into her car. “Of course the vacationers are coming, Mitch, it’s the beach.” she said as she got into the car. “Idiot.” Her hands were shaking as she turned the key in the ignition. She backed out of the driveway and gripped the steering wheel tightly. She turned the radio on and found NPR’s Newsbreak and smiled. “Reports indicate that winds have ceased in other major cities including Washington DC, Spokane, Chicago and New York, increasing temperatures across the United States.” the radio said. “Well it’s the middle of summer, not totally unexpected for there to be a heat wave,” Susan said back to the radio. She rolled her eyes and continued listening. “Speaking with locals here in Washington, many are reporting finding bird carcasses scattered around their properties and on the sidewalks. Their necks are broken from force.” The leather of the steering wheel shifted and squeaked under the tightening grip of Susan’s hands. She shook her head, “Coincidence,” she uttered. As she pulled in to the grocery store, she motioned to turn the radio off just as the signal broke and through the screaming static she heard “THEY”RE COMING.” She pulled her hand back as if she had been shocked, she turned off the car and pushed the button turning off the radio. She grabbed a cart and headed inside, wiping the sweat from her brow that had formed almost immediately after stepping out of her car. Susan was relieved to hear the usual easy listening tunes playing overhead in the grocery store, and she made her way through the aisles to complete her weekly shop. As she made her way to the deli counter, she noticed that the employees were huddled around the radio and didn’t notice her immediately. She cleared her throat and said “Hello!” to get their attention. “Good morning, Susan,” called Ron, as he stepped away from the radio huddle and put on gloves. “Have you been listening to this stuff? Birds all over the place.. No wind.. Weird stuff, huh?” “Hi, Ron. You know I don’t listen to anything but the local weather reports,” she said, hoping her nerves weren’t coming through. “Can I have a pound of turkey please?” “Sure, you got it.” Ron said, turning back to the meat shaver. “How’s this?” he asks, holding up a piece of turkey. “Perfect, thanks.” Susan smiled. “Yeah, Jan and I counted this morning we had 3 birds dead around our house, can you believe that?” Ron said, making conversation. Susan swallowed and chewed the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to talk about this, even though she too has a bird she has to get rid of back at her house. “I guess it means you’re just an expert glass cleaner, haha,” Susan answered. Change the subject, Susan . “Hey, do you know if you have shovels here?” She asks. “Oh yeah, over by the charcoal and outside needs.” Ron answers, handing her her pack of turkey. As Susan reached over the counter to take the pack, he whispers “They’re coming, Susan.” Susan grabbed her turkey and walked backwards. “No one but the renters are coming, Ron.” Susan said, gritting her teeth. She pushed her cart away quickly. “They’re coming!” she heard him call out after her. Susan walked immediately to the outdoor needs aisle and picked up a shovel and lighter fluid. “Got a bird problem too, huh?” a woman said next to her. Susan didn’t recognize her immediately. Must be from the other island, she thought to herself. The woman picked up a shovel. “They say that’s the first sign, you know. The wildlife always knows.” Don’t engage, Susan. Don’t do it. Susan smiled, “hmm.” she responded. “Excuse me,” Susan said, as she tried to navigate her cart around the woman. The woman grabbed the cart to stop her, and Susan tried to pull away to free it from her grasp. “They’re COMING, Susan! They’re coming!” the woman screamed. Susan finally pulled the shopping cart free, and ran down the aisle as the woman screamed after her, “You’ve been warned!” Susan turned into the next aisle and slowed down, and started her deep breathing practice again. Her hands were white and the tingling spread from her fingertips to her ears. “I have to finish, I have to go to the fish camp, I have to go home.” she repeated. As she continued to walk, she felt herself calming down. She gathered the final items she needed and made her way to the checkout counter. She started putting her items on the belt, hoping no one would feel the need to speak to her anymore. The teenager working the cash register didn’t bother to take out his headphones, much to Susan’s delight. She put the cart back in the vestibule and grabbed her items and walked quickly back to her car. She placed the shovel in the trunk of her car and put the bags of food in the passenger seat. As she made her way around to the driver side, she noticed a note underneath the windshield wiper, and as she looked at the other cars surrounding hers, they, too, had notes. She grabbed it, knowing what it would say before she looked. “They’re coming,” it read. Susan crumpled it immediately and left it on the ground. She got in her car and peeled out of the parking space, speeding towards the fish camp. She reflexively turned the radio on, only to be met with screaming static. She adjusted the frequencies but found the same on the AM stations and the FM stations. “Fine,” she said. “No radio anymore, that’s fine.” she assured herself. She felt the tingling sensation again, but this time it was behind her eyes. She clamped her eyes shut to calm herself. As she pulled into the fish camp, she noticed only one other car in the parking lot. “Perfect,” she said. “Early enough for the first catch.” She walked in, and the chimes on the door alerted the fishmonger to her presence. He was listening to the radio. “Ugh, I had to turn mine off-just static!” Susan reported, she hoped calmly. “What does the catch look like today, Bill?” she asked. He hadn’t turned around yet. She heard muttering, and the sound of the cleaver coming down onto the chopping block. Susan winced. She could never be a butcher of any kind. “Bill? Fresh shrimp today?” Susan called again. She stood up on tip toes and craned her neck to see what he was preparing. It was a bird. “Damn things won’t stop flying into the windows.” she heard him say. “Gotta get rid of them before they come.” “Bill. Bill, no one’s coming. BILL.” Susan yelled as the cleaver came down once more. He turned around, wiping the knife on his apron which was already splattered with various fluids. “Bring your birds here, I’ll get rid of ‘em.” He said, plainly. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were bloodshot, he was rubbing his face, not realizing he was wiping bird mess on his cheek. Susan closed her eyes and shook her head, she was not going to bring anything here thank you. She exhaled and smiled, “Thanks, but I think I'll just take a pound of shrimp.” she pointed to the shrimp sitting on ice behind the glass counter. Bill seemed to snap out of it, dropping the cleaver on the counter. He washed his hands, Thank God, Susan thought. He collected the shrimp and put them in a bag for her. The exchange was silent, until Susan was walking toward the door to leave and they both jumped as two more birds plowed into the glass door. “THEY’RE COMING!” Bill yelled. Susan looked back and shook her head as her had searched for the bar to push the door open. She stepped out, and made sure to avoid the bodies that had just fallen beside the door. She looked up and noticed the sky had changed. When she left this morning it was a clear, blue sky. No clouds, no breeze. The air was still thick and heavy, but the sky had changed to a dark gray, but not because of clouds. It was as if the sun had been blocked by a larger object. “Storm’s coming, surely,” she said to herself. Putting the shrimp in the cooler in the back of her car, she reassured herself that she was done with her errands and could finally go home. Cat was waiting for her, after all. And she needed to dispose of the bird from earlier this morning before Cat found it. She turned on to her street and noticed everyone was outside, looking at the skies. Just park the car, get your things and go inside. Don’t worry about everyone else. She pulled into her driveway and shut her car off. She got out and collected the bag in the front passenger seat first, slamming the door shut. “Sorry,” she winced, to no one in particular. Nobody turned around. She made her way to the trunk and got the shovel and lighter fluid and took the shrimp out of the cooler. She closed the trunk door, slightly less aggressively this time and made her way up the stairs. There were 4 more birds, this time on her front porch. She noticed Cat pacing back and forth from behind her glass door. A wave of nausea traveled up to her throat. She swallowed and turned around to see if anyone was watching. She fumbled for her house keys and turned the lock. “Cat,” she crouched to pet him. He arched his back to get away and tried to scratch her. She pulled her hand back in surprise. “Okay, fine. You can’t eat the birds, though. You’ll get sick.” Susan said as she stood up straight. She placed the shrimp and other food in her refrigerator and grabbed her gardening gloves and a trash bag. With the shovel in hand, she headed back outside to dispose of the carcasses. “Once I clean up the yard, we can get back to our book,” she said to herself. “Just get this done, and you’re all set.” She took a deep breath and pushed her front door open. She made sure to pull it closed behind her, she didn’t want the cat to sneak out this time. She closed her eyes and took some deep breaths to help keep the nausea at bay as she picked up the birds. Using the shovel, she placed them into the garbage bag quickly. Having picked up the birds on the porch, she walked down the stairs and headed around the side of the house. The sky had gotten darker, like night, even though it was only 9 am. “It’s going to be a rough one, it seems.” she said to herself, about the impending storm. She reached the side of the house where she saw the first bird earlier this morning, and Susan crouched down to get a better look at it. As she began to pick it up with the shovel, she felt someone behind her. “Mitch, I found a shovel at the store, I’ve got it handled.” she said, sighing. She shoved the bird into her trash bag and tied it off. She stood up and turned around, nearly running into the man that was behind her. “Mitch, what are you doing?” she put her hands on his chest to push him back, but he wouldn’t move. “Mitch. Please move, I want to go inside now.” “It’s them, Susan. They’ve been throwing the birds. They’re already here.” Susan walked backwards to create space, dropping the bag by accident. “Sometimes birds get confused, it happens,” she said, quickly. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince herself or Mitch. It wasn’t working. Mitch grabbed her hand and tried to pull her to the street, where the others were. She tried to free herself from his grasp but she couldn’t. “Let GO.” she said, her voice cracking. “I just want to go inside, please let me go.” Mitch pulled her, as if being pulled by an invisible string that connected him to the street. She pulled her arm the other way, trying to break away. She noticed Cat had pushed the door open and was pacing the porch back and forth. “It’s okay, Cat!” she called behind her, “I’ll be right back!” she reached the street as Mitch placed her next to him. He had let go of her hand, and she rubbed her wrists to lessen the redness. She began to turn around and run back to her house, but was immediately dragged back by multiple people. “It’s no use- they’ve come for us.” the neighbors said. “Who? WHO?” Susan screamed. “There is no one here. We’re alone here, there’s a storm coming and I want to go inside.” “Oh Susan, don’t you see? We’re not alone.” As Mitch turned his body to face the sky, Susan screamed as she saw a beam of light land on the main road in front of them. They had come. They were here. The residents of Oceanside were not alone.