I, Rebecca Rand, being of sound mind and of my own free will do not - well, make a will. I’ve already done that, though I hope to be hanging around making a pest of myself for several decades yet and I really ought to change that bequest to the Donkey Sanctuary, seeing as it closed two years ago. I’ll get around to it. But this is about resolutions. Okay, a bit late, but there’s still a lot of year left. And this morning, Amelia asked me, “Have you made any New Year Revolutions, Auntie Becks?” I corrected her on the “Revolutions” business, though I quite like the idea of riding down the High Street on a motorbike waving a red flag, but I’ve learnt to live with Auntie Becks. Okay, I quite like it. Well, here goes. 1. I will do Dry January. Steve in the Supermarket meant well when he greeted me with a broad grin and said, “We’ve got your favourite red on offer, Rebecca!” but there are situations when you feel people’s eyes on you even if they’re not. Admittedly I wouldn’t have been quite as pleased to hear, “We’ve got your favourite mineral water on offer” but perhaps it’s an acquired taste. But wait. It could be said I’ve broken that one before I’ve even made it and not just that Cava at Bernie’s party on New Year’s Eve. Very nice it was, too, if it could have done with being a bit colder. And I did have that horrible cold and I don’t care what anyone says, a nip of brandy is better than all that cough linctus, and anyway, doesn’t that have codeine in it, so it’s probably even worse for you? Anyway, it’s Lisa’s 50 th on the 29 th and I don’t care what anyone says, the studied Dry January person at a birthday party is a pain in the backside. I mean, someone that doesn’t drink at all is another matter, all respect to them. But I’ve never been one for virtue-signalling. So okay, let’s move on to .... 2. I will stop spending so much money on magazines. It sort of sneaked up on me, and I wonder if I’m protesting too much when I say I much prefer a good book. I always used to. Anyway, they’re starting to annoy me. I know it sounds mean and I’m not proud of myself, but I sometimes think I’m going to scream if I read about another heroic fund-raising child, or about someone who was taken in by a fraudster (and yes, sometimes I think, the silly woman should have seen a mile off that he was trouble!) and as for the illness and injury stories - well, I’ve always been squeamish and that one about the chainsaw and the chin - I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s given me nightmares, but I suspect sometimes I’ve woken up just in time. As for those so-called quick and easy recipes, don’t get me started, as they’re neither. And if I see one more so-called tip telling me you can shift any stain with toothpaste and/or vinegar then I won’t be responsible for myself. But hang on. In November I won £50 on one of the crosswords. Okay, it’s not like the £3003 prize (something about that extra 3 quid that makes it all the more appealing) on the bumper what connects the celebrities one, but it came in very handy. And that anti-wrinkle cream I found in the Bargain Beauty section - well, I’m not deluded enough to think it makes me look like a teenager, but I swear some of the laughter lines seem to be finding life a bit less funny. I might cut back on them a BIT, but they have their uses. It’s not wasted money. How about..... 3. Now some folk say you should make positive resolutions, not negative ones. The thou shalts rather than the thou shalt nots . Whilst I think positive thinking can definitely be over-rated, that has possibilities. The trouble is, I don’t think that I will eat more chocolate digestives or I will watch more soaps quite count. So how about being nicer to Marjorie? Or fair enough, nicer ABOUT Marjorie. I’m polite enough to her face. Well, most of the time. And of course she has a right to be proud about how well her children have done. I have this nasty suspicion that she may just be one of the few people whose Christmas round robin would be, substantially, true. Except she didn’t write one, and made a point of observing how irritating she found them and how she would never do such a thing. Up until then the thought of doing one had never entered my mind, but suddenly it seemed rather appealing. Or it would have done if I had a life like Marjorie’s. That’s the trouble with Marjorie. She makes you want to do things - okay, she makes ME want to do things - just because she disapproves of them. Like eating chocolate digestives over my computer keyboard. She’s actually totally in the right about that, and even more so about the coffee. And she DID cover for me without saying a word when I had that cold, even though she’s the kind of person who would come in if she had one of those illnesses in the magazines, which she thinks are a waste of money. And she’s had some subtle little digs at my drinking, too. I tell myself it was pure coincidence that the newspaper (she allows herself a newspaper) was open at the page with the article about how amazing some celebrity whose name I’ve forgotten (or am trying to) felt after giving up the booze. Oh, nothing shock horror, all about the positive, not the negative. Typical Marjorie. AND she’s a hypocrite. Teresa reckons she’s seen her shift a bottle of amontillado without batting an eyelid, okay, without slurring a word. But that could be hearsay. All the same, I know my limitations and know that there’s no way that the thought sanctimonious old biddy won’t enter my mind at some point this year, indeed, at some point this month, so no point to making a resolution I can’t keep. 4. I will declutter. Now let’s get this straight, no matter what CERTAIN PERSONS might say, I most definitely not a hoarder. Look in my house and you will never see a newspaper more than one day out of date (I even end up accidentally throwing away those I keep on significant dates under the probably misconception that one day they will earn me a fortune. Nor will you see one empty baked bean tin (fair enough, I don’t like baked beans, so make that empty tomato tin) or one rusting aerosol. All of my rooms are utterly accessible (well, usually) without piles of clothes or rotting duvets or inhabited cushions. But I’ve never been what you might call a minimalist. Funnily enough, this is one area where Marjorie and I are in a form of half-agreement. I caught her glancing at one of my magazines a couple of weeks back and it was one of those “makeover” articles (which might well be another reason for not buying so many of them as they only annoy me, but I’ve moved on from that now!) and she said, “Well, I couldn’t live in a place like that,” pointing at the “after” photograph. “Way too clinical. It needed a tidy-up, I’ll grant you, but throwing out that lovely bunch of artificial flowers and those corn dollies and that rug was a crying shame.” True, Marjorie likes what she calls “nice things” and I tend to refer to “stuff” and her “nice things” are considerably tidier and dusted more often than my “stuff” but we still have at least this in common. Sort of. It probably wasn’t a good idea to tell so many people that I collected pig ornaments, but I bought at least as many myself as I’ve been given. And I suppose that the floor isn’t really the place for books, but what else could I do when the bookshelves were full? Maybe I was a tad over-ambitious in getting quite so many various “kits” in that “kit” phase I had a year or so ago and should pass them on to a good cause and so, directly or indirectly, to someone who’ll make more use of them. But I’ve never been a quitter (well, I have, but my decision not to do Dry January proves it’s not in my nature) so who knows? I may well get round to wanting home made bread or home made yoghurt, or to make my own rag rug (Marjorie was right, the one in the “before” picture did look lovely) and then how would I feel thinking that I’d given away the means of making them? As for that old carpet sweeper, well, what could be more embarrassing than having company coming round and the vacuum cleaner deciding it’s packed in? Always as well to have a standby. You can never have too many coffee mugs, can you? They get broken so easily, though of course when it’s just the handle, they can be ideal for putting seeds in (now where DID I put those packets of seeds I picked up last year thinking it was high time I grew something of my own? I think they might be in the airing cupboard, under the spare bedding set I picked up when it was on offer, so they shouldn’t be damp. I’ll have to look them out). Anyway, buying a mug is one of the cheapest and most useful kinds of retail therapy, isn’t it? A couple of quid, less in a charity shop, and then there’s one with a cute little pug dog, and one with a picture of Windsor castle, and one commemorating the 2008 town Marathon. An alien happening to land here could do worse than look at a collection of mugs in a charity shop to get a picture of life on earth in all its rich variety. Perhaps I should at least explore the darkest recesses of my wardrobe, though I know I will not step into a world of fauns and talking lions but discover clothes that I have not worn for the last 5 years because (go on, spit it out get it over with) they don’t fit me. And aren’t they supposed to be top of the declutter list? But wait - no way ...... 5. I will lose some weight. Now I’m the first to admit that this isn’t the most original of New Year’s Resolutions and that I have made it before and that not much has come of it. No way on this earth do I want to end up with the emaciated stick insect look, and it gets totally on my - well, let’s just say, a flabby part of my anatomy, not that there are many that aren’t! - that perfectly normal, average women with curves exactly where they’re supposed to be are referred to as “Plus Size”. Why not call the Skinny Minnies “Minus Size”? Only fair, isn’t it? But much as elasticated waist trousers are a wonderful thing, perhaps it would be nice to have an odd pair that isn’t. And there are all those warnings (those ruddy magazines again!) about the particular dangers of an apple-shaped figure. But though I know you’re never supposed to put the blame on genetics, that my Mum has an apple shaped figure, my Grandma (who is the healthiest nonagenarian that I know!) has an apple-shaped figure, and though it’s hard to tell with the clothes of the time, it looks on old photos as if my great grandmother and great aunts all have apple-shaped figures. I have this nasty feeling that if I were otherwise the epitome of skeletal, I would still have a belly that resembled a granny smith with blusher on. And I never wore a bikini in my 20s so I certainly don’t intend starting now! I might at least put it on the back burner. BACK burner, not fat burner! After all, it’s Amelia’s birthday next month, and I’m highly honoured in being asked to the party, and what on earth is she going to say if Auntie Becks doesn’t appreciate the birthday cake and the chocolate brownies (I hope her Mum makes chocolate brownies - if there’s a heaven without my sister-in-law Susan’s chocolate brownies, I’m not sure if I’d be interested in going there!). Easter is quite early this year, too, and though I know it’s wholly unscientific, chocolate DOES taste better when it comes shaped like an egg. Perhaps I’ll at least try to make a few nods in the direction of healthier eating. I could probably endure an odd plate of steamed veg with the thought of a chocolate mousse or an apple Muller Rice afterwards. The latter almost counts as one of your five a day, doesn’t it? Well, doesn’t it? 6. I will exercise more. Now perhaps I’m beating myself up too much about this! I hardly live a sedentary lifestyle, do I? I walk into work at least half the time (and when I take the short cut through the industrial estate, where some of the paths aren’t brilliant, that makes it count as more rigorous, I’m sure) and always use the lift instead of the stairs. The fact that the office is only a 2 storey building and we only had the lift installed in the first place to be more disabled-friendly is neither here nor there, nor is the fact that I tend to be claustrophobic. And it’s hardly my fault I live in a bungalow, is it? Anyway, look what happened to Cathy when she joined the gym last year! Went into it all guns blazing (I’ve never quite worked out that phrase, I mean, guns don’t blaze, do they?) and full of enthusiasm and eager anticipation about all the zumba and circuit training and kettlercise (don’t ask, but let’s just say it doesn’t have much to do with making a cup of coffee) and Tai Chi, and what happened? She ended up on crutches for two months after breaking her ankle? I gather that she seriously considered phoning one of those claim management companies you see advertised in the intervals of the sort of TV I ought to make a resolution about giving up, to complain about them not de-icing the steps that led up to the Leisure Centre, but whether they told her she didn’t have a claim or whether she decided against it, to be frank, I don’t know. Okay, fair enough, she’s gone back to the gym afterwards, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, does it? So let nobody say that going to the gym is guaranteed to make you any fitter. 7. I will make an appointment with the solicitor to change my will and make a bequest to the Hedgehog Hospital .....


Ron Gaston walks up to the checkout lane with his groceries. "OK, I see we have one head of lettuce, some random nuts and berries, and one stick of chewing gum. That'll be $80; will that be cash, credit, or plasma donation?" "Eighty dollars? I guess the price went up since last week. Credit, I guess." The cashier swipes his credit card. "We'll be launching a layaway option next week, allowing you to pay in installments." "Does that come at an extra cost?" "No, we'll hold your nuts and berries for free until you pay." "So, it's the same as tonight; only I don't receive a snack at the end." Despite being the town mechanic, Ray walks home since his truck has been out of gas for three months. On his way home, he notices various signs of the town's desperation. At the furniture store: "Buy a couch and get a back rub from my wife for free." At the tailor: "Buy one suit, get one free... and a back rub from the furniture store owner's wife." At the massage parlor: "Buy a couch and a suit and get a back rub from the furniture store owner's wife." Ray walks up to his gas station and looks up at the sign: $10.98 for regular, $12.04 for mid-grade, and LOL for premium. As he approaches the light, he notices a van with an out-of-state plate getting gas. "Just traveling through?" Ray asks. "Oh, yeah, the interstate was down due to a huge accident. I'm trying to take backroads." "Good plan; thanks for coming by." Ray heads inside, eyebrows raised, where his wife Laura is behind the cash register. "A customer? We can finally afford that loaf of bread we've been talking about." "I know; he paid cash too." Outside, the customer is having difficulty starting his van, and Ray walks out to see what's the problem. "It won't start." "Do you mind if I take a quick look?" Ray can tell it's an alternator as soon as he looks under the hood. He feels terrible for the guy because he was only trying to take a shortcut and ended up breaking down. "It seems to be the alternator; we can order one and have it in a couple of days? It's going to be expensive. Do you have credit?" "Money isn't an issue; I'll pay cash." "OK, then, I'll order it tonight. Why don't you check back in a couple of days? We'll get you all fixed up." "That sounds good to me. One thing though, don't go poking around the back of the van, alright?" "Certainly, your van, your business." The man takes out his phone and begins scrolling. "Is Uber available out here? Nevermind, 30 minutes. I'll see you in two days." "Alright, see you then." Ray returns to the gas station. "Did I hear you right, an alternator? Did you get the money up front?" "Trust me; he's good for it." "How do you know that?" "He just ordered an Uber." "An Uber? What is he a millionaire?" The next day, Laura visits Ray, who has already begun installing the alternator. "How are things going?" "We're ahead of schedule." "Isn't it odd that he told you to stay out of the van? I'm curious what's back there." "Leave it alone. Whatever it is, it is none of our concern." "What if it's a dead body, a kidnapped child, or, worst yet, he wants to sell us solar panels?" "There's nothing back there except a slew of boxes. Leave it alone." Laura walks to the back of the van. "Come on, aren't you interested in what's in those boxes?" Ray follows her to the back of the van. "Stop; the last thing we need is for this guy to think we're snooping through his stuff." While Ray watches nervously, Laura opens the back door and carefully opens a box. There were stacks and stacks of cash inside the box. "Whoa! One of these boxes contains around half a mil in cash." "We have to put it back and pretend we didn't see it." "No way! This could be our ticket out of here!" "What do you want to do, steal the money? Do you honestly think he won't come after us?" Laura begins to rummage through the cash. Ray realizes that Alexander Hamilton is wearing eyeliner and pulls out his own ten to compare. All of the bills are fake. "They're all fakes!" "Who has this much counterfeit money?" Ray remembers last night and goes to the cash register to examine the bills he paid; they, too, are fake. "He's taking advantage of us!" Ray yells. "We can't afford to take a hit on the alternator." "We need to turn some fake money into real money." "Nobody cares about one-dollar bills. We'll be able to get away with it if we spend them in different places." Ray compares a one-dollar bill to a fake. "The only difference I see is that George Washington is wearing a woman's scarf." "No, that's in the real one; in the fake, his brows are arched like Martha just put on that girdle he likes." They drove to the city to spend several one-dollar bills after Ray fixed the alternator. They purchased groceries, gas, and a subscription to Gas Station Gourmet. They realized that at this rate, they would never make up for the alternator. Laura also had to tell everyone she was a dancer down at Bazooms off the 909, open till one, no cover before eight. She thought she might have to go through with it until Ray had a better idea. The local casino slot machines would take the larger bills without suspicion. They could never return to the casino, but it would get the job done. That night and into the next morning, Ray and Laura exchanged approximately $100,000 in counterfeit money for real money. They were exhausted when they returned to the gas station in the morning. The van's owner arrived late in the morning to pay for the alternator and handed Ray some cash. "Thanks for getting it done so quick. I put an extra hundred dollars in there because I paid for my gas with movie money last night by accident." "What's that, movie money?" "Yeah, I work for a prop company; I'm delivering fake money to a movie set. Honestly, I was a little worried about leaving it here overnight." "Laura, did you hear that? This guy has movie money in the back of that van." "What happens if you spend some of the movie money?" "An honest error, like last night, no worries. But I might be in big trouble if I spend a lot of it." Ray and Laura turn ghostly white. "Hey, you two don't look too hot. If you want to see a movie being made, they're filming a scene at the local casino; that's where I'll be bringing the movie money; I could get you in if you want.


"No". Her first word was already one strike against her. The mother blurted out an unintelligible, "squaaapp!" Hearing this, the father rushes into the room and utters an inquisitive, "Bluagh??" He immediately begins writing on the chalkboard hanging from his neck like a large pendant. It read, "What is the matter?" The wife furiously scribbles, "She spoke. She said, no." It was a similar chalkboard to his hanging from her neck. She holds the chalkboard right in his face, as was fashionable at the time when you wanted to yell at someone. "No!" The child shouts. "No, no, no, noooooonooo." The parents let out incredible sobs consisting of , "bluptts", "fludds", plostttiots" and "clisssptooos". "How many is that?" The mother writes. His written reply was, "Four, five... I dont know. That last one didnt count." Feeling the attention being drawn from herself, the daughter lets loose a tirade of at least 35 "no's". She is not content and doesnt stop until both parents are in shock, just staring at her. The mother writes in very small letters, meant to be a whisper, "How did she learn to pronounce?" The father looks at her for a long time. He takes his chalkboard off of his neck and writes, "come into the other room so she cant hear me..." He puts his chalkboard on the floor and walks out of the room without it. It takes the mother some time to follow. "Why would he leave his chalkboard." She thought. "What did he mean by, so she cant hear me!" Horrified by what she feared was about to happen, she grabs his chalkboard and several of his scattered chalks and runs after him. Finding him sitting in front of the fire in his normal chair directly across from her's, where they used to sit together and write tiny blocks of text to eachother. Each one written so small that the other could not possibly read, but each one so full of love and lust that their mutual desire for togetherness was as obvious and powerul as that from two people so in love and foolish that they would speak their desires out loud. She holds his chalkboard out to him. He refuses with a gesture. She presses the chalkboard into his hands to get him to come to his sences, but he wont grab it no matter how hard she tries. He stands and steps back as she collapses on the floor in a heap in front of him. She cant look at him as he begins speaking. "He is killing himself", she screams in her head as she counts down his words. He began in spoken words; "I taught her how to pronounce." "Why would you do that. Why would you kill our child." She wrote. He speaks again. "I know that she is not my child." "I made a mistake", she writes. "When I was a boy, my grandfather spoke to me." He continued. Each word she heard drew him closer to death. As the total neared 95, she stopped him and wrote, "Dont do it. I am sorry." He paused for a moment and continued, "he told me that..." He was interrupted by her begging him to stop. For the first time in her 32 years, she spoke, "Take care of her, I know you love her." He turns away confused, only to hear the sound of his wife unlatching the third story window. There is no other sound to be heard but a distant thump as the father had already made his way back to the daughters room. He holds his wifes daughter close and makes cooing sounds to her as she continues to babble the word "no". 97... "No", 98.. "No", 99..."No". He couldnt watch what was coming next so he continues his story, "...


I am... was a simple farmer. I lived in a small house with my wife Helpis Afra, our daughter Pomaria and me, Lucius. My wife and I have lived here for all our life, and we never saw this coming. It was still morning when the great mountain first rumbled. Its voice could be heard echoing from far far away. The Great Mountains anger could be seen, as its anger fumed up into the realm of gods. We awoke to our little Pomaria crying, as the God of the mountains grumble had scared her. “Shhh... don’t worry sweetie, everything will be alright”. My wife tried to calm her as I went out to see what was happening. I saw Nymphius run past me. “What’s going on? Had the mountain God been angered?” “I don’t know what is going on, but it does not look good. The Priests are preaching everyone to stay home as this is a test from the gods and they will protect all who believe, but I can’t Lucius, I just can’t” he said as he bolted way stumbling over rocks. People were running every which way. Some ran to the Temples to plead to the gods for their lives and their families. Others would run straight out of the city and towards one of its neighbouring cities with as much valuables as they could carry. Those who took advantage of the chaos ransacked houses one after another, looting, pillaging and robbing people who leave the city. As I was about to turn back home, that’s when I heard it, the loud bang that came from the mountain. It drew in the attention of everyone, be they praying, fleeing or looting, the sound seemed to freeze everyone in place as they glanced at the Mountain that had begun to spew out fire that rained down. It took a few seconds for people to snap back to reality and continue their chaotic movements in this crisis. I rushed home, if Helpis had calmed down our daughter, then the new boom seems to have re-shaken her as she had broken down into another tantrum. “We have to go, the God of the mountain is mad, and his wrath is raining down.” We left Pomaria to her tantrum, as we ran around gathering any valuables we could find, which were not many. I opened the front door. As is attempted to step outside, a great ball of fire landed in front of me. The power from the crash, pushed me back and I fell on my ass. “This is a warning. The God is warning us to stay and wait. We are to await his judgement, for if we leave, he shall burn our souls, so we’d never reach the fields of Elysium.” Helpis took Pomaria in her hands and cradled her, as the Mountains rage kept going on. Blasts echoed, followed by screams of people all around. Lucious looked though his window as his friend, neighbours were scattering around, running and screaming in fear of the rain of fire. The streets had started to fill up with rivers of fire, it swallowed everything it touched. In just a couple of hours, the whole town was filled with the Mountains wrath. Every house was covered in dust and what remained from the Mountains anger. I could not see anything outside of my house no more. The walls still gave off the heat of the mountain. “My sweet Helpis and Pomaria, the god has saved our lives, we have gained his blessing.” I said as I fell to the knees. We were safe in our house, even though, we had no wait of getting out, we were safe and alive. It's been almost a week since our house was buried. We had eaten all of our food we had still left over after last winter. I’ve dug a hole through the hard remains of the Gods judgement. I haven’t been able to get above ground, but I’ve reached our neighbours house, which had some food, but nothing else for use. Luckily the water well was close to us and still intact. After another week had passed, I had checked out multiple houses. There was no more food to be found, and the last time we had a meal, was 3 days ago. As our food had gone out and Pomaria was complaining about the lack of food, I would leave for a few hours and bring back some meat for them. As days went on, and I brought more food, to escape questions from my wife, I started to go and get the food during the night. My name is Pomaria. My daddy has always been there for me and my mommy. We have been in our home for a long time. Daddy used to go out and look for a way out, but now he only sits at the table under the blanket. He would bring us food during the night, so me and mommy have something to eat, but he just sits there, telling us he is not hungry. It’s been 3 days since daddy left. I hope he finds his way back. Mommy goes to get some food now; she says that daddy prepares it for her. I hope daddy comes back soon. We had been in this hellhole for over two weeks. Two days ago, my husband left during the night and didn’t come back in the morning. I went looking for him and saw something gruesome... My husband had cut out parts of his body to feed us. “Lucius... why?” he looked up. “I had to, I had to provide for my family.” His voice was weak and lifeless. “Please, I can’t do it on my own anymore. Please, you have to do this, for Pomaria.” He said, as he pushed forward the dish with another slice of his body. I know I shouldn’t have taken it, but our daughter needs to eat, she needs to get out. So please God, send someone over to help... Someone... please... save us.


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion This week, I want to talk music and art! They play such a big part in my own writing and provide much needed inspiration. In fact, when I sit down to write, I always search for the right music first, and then go searching for a cool image. I’m also greatly influenced by the things I watch. But every writer is different and pulls inspiration from different places. - Do you use music and art as inspiration in your writing? What about television or film? - What other types of media or outside sources do you use? - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? Check out previous Roundtable discussions on our ! *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.


Brandon had not been doing well since the incident, avoiding any social situations and spending his time immersed in books or online. Brandon was less than thrilled when his roommate guilt-tripped him into coming to a bar with him. At first, it wasn't that unpleasant. Brandon drank a couple of beers and even managed to strike up a few conversations. But then he noticed her. Across the room, she was laughing with her friends. It felt like a nightmare come true. The girl who had destroyed his life was standing directly before him. Brandon's stomach grumbled as he watched her laugh and flirt. He wanted to run, but his feet were stuck to the floor. He caught her kissing another guy just a month ago, and everything fell apart. He thought their love was real, but if that was true, how could she want to be with anyone else. It felt like she ripped his heart from his chest; they hadn't spoken since. But she's only 15 feet away now, and her perfume draws him back. The girl had infiltrated his dreams like a neocortex Blitzkrieg. Last night she was sharing a cigarette with this other guy, now she's touching his chest, and then they went to bed together. He awoke in a cold sweat, sick to his stomach. But he couldn't shake her from his mind. She was always there, haunting him. Even while he was daydreaming, she found her way into his thoughts, stripping off her dress and crawling into bed with this other guy, who he despised more than anything but couldn't picture his face no matter how hard he tried. He was a blurry background figure, a spectator, a minor character in this assassination. Shake it off, be cool; the worst thing you can do is let on that she has consumed you for the last month. It's like being obsessed with a celebrity - completely irrational and beyond your control. Brandon has gone through fifty scenarios in the last ten seconds as time has slowed. What happened? He wants to know if it was all for nothing. He was going to confront her, no not now, yes now, your sanity is hanging by a thread, and the path back to normal lies in a few words. He can't handle it any longer, but he's been standing still for 12 seconds, 13... You are not just naive but also gullible. You're hoping she'll say something to help you solve the mystery. But what if she thinks you're a loser? You'll be able to tell everything you need to know just by seeing her expression when she sees you; you know the one, the one people make when they're annoyed to see another person--the phony smile, devoid of passion. On the brightside, you'll know and be able to move on. But what if the reverse happens, and you end up with a fresh version of the face that haunts you? Runaway, runaway, runaway... at least your nightmares now allow the possibility that the other guy is fantastic; what if it's you? You cannot avoid that reality and don't want to find out. Oh my God, you've been standing here for 15 seconds like an idiot. Run! Brandon moves towards the exit and collides with a waitress carrying a tray of beverages. The entire bar rubbernecks the five-car pile-up. "I'm very sorry." Brandon's gaze meets the waitress's, and he is free of the spell. She smiles, and he smiles back.


Gary, 38 “I thought there’d be more of a campfire vibe going on, seen as you know, everywhere’s on fire. But, the other night, when I tried to get a chorus of ‘B-I-N-G-O’ going, they booed me. Unbelievable!” Jake, 26 “Trying to keep to a high protein, low-carb diet has been tough. Not impossible, but tough. The guy I’m travelling with keeps trying to get me to have potatoes, says it's starvation that’s the reason my abs are popping. But, it’s just jealousy. Surely after the nuclear winter comes the nuclear summer? And who doesn’t want to be ready for that?” Jeanette, 32 “I didn’t have much of a skin care routine to speak of before it all happened. But, someone showed me that using rotting human flesh does wonders for your complexion. They also danced around with the entrails, so I don’t think they were all there. But, the skin care advice still stands,” Alicia, 42 “It’s given everyone a chance to reinvent themselves. The other day we met this guy called ‘Donkey Cock’. Quite an aggressive guy, a bit stabby, carried around a severed donkey penis with him like a safety blanket. Bet he was an accountant, or something like that before it all happened. Was probably massively into Rocky Horror,” Cortland, 52 “No one can look good in actual rags. Fact. Sure, you can accessorize. How else do you think I’ve managed to pull off this look? But, frankly this whole apocalypse has been a disaster fashion-wise,” Laura & Stephen, both 35 Stephen: “Restaurant standards have really nosedived,” Laura: “There used to be this place that we went to all the time. But, we went there yesterday, and the guy just screamed at us to get out,” Stephen: “The angry, celebrity chef is so cliché. At some point you have to remember about customer service,” Laura: “Fortunately, there’s quite a good street food movement happening,” Stephen: “We were at this guy the other day who does awesome barbecue. Really simple, but tasty food. Tastes just like pork,” Mark, 24 “It sucks that I never got the chance to tell my boss to go fuck himself. That first day when I didn’t have to drag my ass in, only for him to shout at me was great. Sure, I had to escape a gang of crazed rats. But, it was still pretty great,” Joey-T, 19 “End of the...? Bro, don’t mess with me. Are you messing with me?...Shit!...I...er...Does that mean the QuickStop is closed?“ Zoe, 22 “Some people have a real attitude now. This guy was all like, ‘what skills do you have?’ And I was like, ‘Erm, I’m a content provider’ and he just starts laughing,” Glen, 54 “This guy said the water he’d got was the best, filtered stuff you could get. Sure, there were some smooth notes, and a clean, crisp finish. But, it was cold, and that’s about as good as it got. Finishing the bottle was a chore. I can’t say I’ll be going back...yes I am dehydrated, but I have standards,” Barry, 40 “I blame Hollywood. We’re all waiting for some charismatic leader to step through the smoke, bring us all together and lead us forward. But, the closest we’ve got is when some guy trying to sing ‘B-I-N-G-O’ the other night.


Ever since Evan grew up, the holidays had lost much meaning. When he was younger, there was the excitement of gifts, food, and movies. Now the most exciting part was being able to make fun of the weird holiday cards he got. It was Christmas Eve and he didn’t have anything better to do than go into work. Some may call it sad but work was like a second home to Evan. As trashy and bare-bones Neonprisim was, it had a lot of memories. Since it was a bar the memories were mostly making and drinking alcohol, but they were memories he held dear to his heart. There wasn’t much he had to do anyways. It was a small town and adding the crazy cold weather meant mostly desperate people would show up. First, he headed to his locker to put his stuff away. He put away the thick clothes and put on a white button-up shirt and black pants. Next was his appearance. Even though he was born with dark caramel skin, he seemed to be getting paler on the daily. He had dark circles under his brown eyes and weird scratches he didn’t know about were scattered all over his face. He looked like he was half dead. Regardless of how bad he looked, he still needed to start preparing the bar for customers. He was able to hustle last minute luckily before the customers started rolling in. It was the same typical 5. Billy, Sara, Bobby, Ramona, and Grandmama Nielson. They typically would make some small talk, order, drink, and leave. Gah, they were fun. Later, snow started to fall. Most of the 5 had already left so Evan started to get ready for early closing. Abruptly the door slammed open. “Party!” The person who slammed open the door screamed. A large crowd of people followed the screamer in, one carried a boom-box that was blasting pop songs, and a couple of others already carried large bottles of alcohol. Evan stood in a mixed state of shock and confusion as he watched the group grew more and more chaotic. One of the group grabbed a chair and stood on it. She was tall and pale, her big auburn hair covered most of her face from Evan’s angle but he knew she was probably just as wasted as the rest of them. “Alright, everybody! Let's finish this Annual Romane Family Pub Crawl off with a bang! If you need a ride, let me know, and come again next year!” She exclaimed to the room. Evan was even more confused than before. What pub crawl? He wormed his way through the crowd over to where the lady was. Somehow she found him first. “Hey! You work here right? Do you know where Michael is?” She asked loudly, trying to be heard over the loud noises. “I do work here, who’s Michael?” Evan responded, matching her volume. “Doesn’t Michael work here?” She questioned. “I don’t think so, no. Why is a pub crawl here?” Evan questioned back. “Wait. This is NovaPrision right?” She asked, confused. “No, this is NeonPrisim,” Evan clarified. “Oh shoot, we were supposed to go to NovaPrision,” she paused to glance at her watch with a frustrated sigh, “there is no way we could make it there in time.” “Well I’m sorry but there is no way I can help with all these people. It’s just me on tonight’s shift,” Evan stated. The lady paused for a moment. “I could help.” “What?” Evan asked confused. “I can help. I used to be a waitress and I’ve been ushering my family my entire life,” she offered. “That could work,” Evan said. The two spent the next couple of hours making sure everyone and everything was well maintained. In the end, the night went well. The lady called everyone rides home and now they were working on picking up all the trash. “You know, I don’t think I’ve introduced myself yet. I’m Rose, nice to meet you,” Rose said, holding out her hand. “I’m Evan,” Evan informed, shaking her hand. “So,” Rose started, “why are you working on Christmas?” “Oh, well I didn’t really have anything better to do and I needed the hours anyway. Why a pub crawl on Christmas?” Evan asked. “Well, it’s the one way where I’m able to see my family, keep them entertained, and able to dodge their awkward questions in one event. My family is pretty far spread out so it’s one thing they can all save up to do. What about your family?” Rose responded. “Well, my family is made of a bunch of busy people so holidays don’t typically happen with all of us together. The pub crawl seems pretty cool though. Well on the other side of it of course,” Evan teased as he finished up with the trash. “Holy smokes,” Rose exclaimed. Evan turned to see what she was looking at. “Holy smoked,” Evan agreed. Outside the snow had fallen so hard that it turned everything white. There was no way either of them could go home. “Um, I think there might be some sleeping bags in the back. You could take the couch I could take one of the booths if you’d like,” Evan offered. “Erm, yeah. That would be good, thank you,” Rose said. Quickly, the two went to the back to grab the sleeping bags and set up their sleeping arrangements. They both ended up setting their stuff down on the floor since they both wanted to see the snow more. The two whispered goodnights and fell asleep quickly. When the morning came, the snow had melted just enough so they could get through the door. “Morning, I think I’m going to head out in a bit,” Rose said softly. Evan yawned with a stretch, “Morning, I think I’m going to, too.” Evan got up and started to make some coffee while Rose checked her phone for messages. She stood up and ruffled her hair in an attempt to tame the bed head and walked over to Evan. Together they drank coffee and chatted about random movies and books they liked. They talked for about 30 minutes before Rose realized the time. “Gah shoot I have to be at work in a few hours,” she muttered, “Do you have a pen?” “No, I think we only have pencils,” Evan responded. “Why do you guys have pencils?” Rose asked. “I think just ‘cause they're cheaper,” Evan responded. “Well,” Rose started before grabbing a pencil from across the bar, “You should call me sometime. Maybe we could go out for lunch or something.” She slid him a napkin with her cell number on it. “Like on a date?” Evan asked softly as he took the napkin, blushing softly. “Yeah, like on a date,” Rose responded with a smile. She gave him a small wave before quickly running out the door. Evan looked at the napkin with a smile. He had had a lot of memories at NeonPrisim, but this was definitely his favorite.


A long time ago, in a forest not far from here, a little girl of no more than four stood looking up at the trees in awe of their great heights. She was amazed at the texture of the bark beneath her tiny fingers and the colours of the leaves on the forest path. Upon hearing soft foot steps crunching the leaves behind her, she giggled and darted through the trees, hiding behind an exceptionally large one. She waited, breathing heavy, for the footsteps to continue. She heard them pick up speed, and suddenly the girl was flying through the air, swinging in the arms of her father. Squealing in delight she begged to be swung higher and faster. Her father swings her around once more, before plopping her down into the foliage on the forest floor. Kneeling before his little girl, looking earnestly into her sweet face, he warned her not to run off again, for the woods were quite large, and it would be easy to get lost. The girl, quick to reassure that she would stay close, nodded her head vigorously, causing her dark curls to shake. Together they walked through the forest, marvelling at the trees and the path, touching the leaves and the moss mottling the tree bark. It was then the little girl saw it. A butterfly. It was the bluest butterfly she had ever seen. Ignoring her fathers earlier warning she left the path and followed the butterfly deeper into the woods, and away from her father. She climbed over fallen logs, and ducked under low branches. She walked for hours in the woods, following the butterfly, while her father searched for her. Eventually, after the sun had retreated, and the shadows crept closer, the butterfly landed on single flower, the colour of the morning sun. Creeping up to the flower, she stared, wide eyed, at the butterfly. At this time a boy, only a few years older than she, stood in the shadows watching the girl. He knew she was loved and that someone must be missing her, for her hair was tied up in ribbons, and her clothes, despite her trek through the woods, were clean. Stepping into the light he called out to her “Hey, you!” The girl jumped in fright, spinning around to see who was there. When she saw the boy, his own clothes dirty and ripped, she rushed to him, feeling great sadness the sight of him. She gave him a hug and told the boy how they were going to find her father, and he would wash and fix his clothes, “because that’s what daddies do.” She took the boys hand and gave a pull on his arm. “Come on,” she complained. “He can’t help you if you don’t come with me” The boy didn’t understand, but knew the woods were no place for such a girl, especially a nice girl. Giving in, he held her hand tight and together they looked for her father. Another hour passed, and the little light left soon turned to darkness. The girl was growing scared her, only comfort in the boy still holding her hand. He whispered to her that everything would be okay. Shortly after, the children noticed long sweeping lights, filtering through the trees. A search party was out looking for the lost little girl. When the children were spotted by the a member of the search team, they were scooped up and brought to the search base. The news soon spread, and the girl was rushed into her fathers waiting arms. She twisted to find the boy in the celebrating crowd, so her daddy could help him wash and sew his clothes, but he was no where to be found. The boy was gone. The girl was brought home, and while she and her father still walked the forest, it was impressed upon her that she never leave the path. The passing days turned to weeks, the weeks into months, until many years had passed and the girl was no longer a girl, but a woman. And as the woman walked the woods, staying on the familiar path her father had taught her so many years ago, she came across a blue butterfly. The second blue butterfly she had ever witnessed in these woods. Without a second thought, she took off after the butterfly. Her shoes, tripping her as she ran were quickly discarded. Her clothes caught and tore on stray branches, but the woman did not stop. She ran and ran until the sky had darkened, and the butterfly finally stopped to rest on a yellow flower. Recognizing this place she spun around, just in time to see a man step into the moonlight. “Its you,” she whispered, breathless. The woman had finally found the boy who had saved her so many years before. She ran to him, took his hand, and together they walked through the forest once more. This time the woman was not afraid, for she knew she was safe, and the man felt no need to reassure her, instead they walked in silence knowing they had finally found their home.


The dim lighting and the cold that's the first thing I remember as I woke from the cold sleep pod. Dragging myself up from the cold spongy bed. Looking down at me is a face, a face I don't know, I should know. "Welcome back to the world, why don't we warm you up" the face talks. Well that's what faces do I suppose. Sitting up takes great effort but changes how I see the room, the face has a body, a slim feminin figure wearing a tight one peice suit of some type of foamy material, it is a ocean green colour. It clings to the body attached to the face in a way my brain tells me should make me feel something, but I just feel cold. "Mr Wood ? Tell me what do you remember" the face attached to the body is talking again. Why is it talking, I should talk too,"Cold" I hear my own voice it sounds like I just ate a glass bottle. "Why don't you sit a bit and I'll get something to warm you up" the face says and the body turns and walks out. I try to follow but my body has other ideas. "Mr Wood how do you feel" I hear a feminin voice say. Opening my eyes I see the room has changed the woman's face or I should call her a girl is over me again." We should stop meeting like this, people will get ideas" She laughs it's a sweet musical sound,it's one of those laughs that reach all the way to her eyes and it's beautiful. "Well I can see you are feeling better, your vitals are all normal for a man your age why don't you try sleep and we can see how you do tomorrow" She reaches over and I hear a soft beep, it reminds me of the sounds in a hospital. I try to ask her what she ment by my age but the black closes in again. Tessa looks down and the sleeping man, he is bare but for a sheet covering him from the waste down. His arm and chest are well built but covered with the faint remains of old wounds. She wondered what he had done to get them all , she would ask him tomorrow. "Good morning Mr Wood, how are we feeling today" she asked he opened his eyes and sat up slowly,"much better thanks" he rasped. She could see the questions brewing behind those deep green eyes. "My name is Tessa you can call me Tess, let's get you up and about and we can talk as we walk okay?" She helped him get into a hospital gown and then the wheelchair. "Would you like me to just talk or do you have specific questions?" "What year is it and what happened?" He asked in a deep gravelly voice, Tess decided she liked that voice it was very unlike any of the other voices here. " It is 2550 the 1st of July Mr Wood you have been asleep in the cold pod for over 500 years, as to what happened that is a long and difficult story. Let's just say that the people of the old world had poor leaders that made worse decisions, there was a huge war just after you went to sleep and not much of the surface world survived." Tessa could tell by the way he sat in the chair that he was having difficulty with this information, she pushed him over to a window in the corridor. Outside the floodlights lit up the abyssal plain. "Our ancestors from your time were safe down here and forgotten by the world as the surface destroyed itself they worked to survive here, and over time managed to thrive. We have been living in safety down here for over 500 years but now things are changing." "So why did you wake me ?" He rasped "Well Mr Wood you see we have not had conflict or war or crime here for over 400 years to be honest we have forgotten, we left you and that South African gentleman to sleep because in the early years your skills were not needed and until now you have not been needed." The man in the wheelchair began to laugh, a deep booming laugh, Tessa looked at him, confused.


The crew all were shrouded by the deep red of the emergency lights. The sirens weren’t blaring because the precious air they needed to do so was in short supply. There was a crack somewhere. The pressure had fallen so sharply, so suddenly that it had to have been a hit from something. Something had been whizzing through space for who knows how long only to slice open the ship. They’ll undoubtedly find it somewhere. Alex chirped through the radio “Everyone okay?” There was a round of yes’s and she turned to the main console. There was a large, damning alert on the screen: “Hull breach. Ship integrity: falling. Air pressure: falling. Power: falling. Procedure... calculating.” Alex knew there was no calculating this; it was obvious what had happened and what could be done about it. She turned to her crew and calmly asked Pat to come to the console and stay in radio contact. She gave the rest of the crew a reassured smile and slipped toward the back. She pulled her way through the ominous craft toward the airlock. It hissed open and closed behind her as she stepped in. She wrestled a tool kit from the wall and took a deep, calming breath before opening the door in front of her. The deep bleakness, unyielding and unrelenting and unmerciful, yawned before her. The odds of something crashing into her ship were astronomical, but if it happened once, chances were high it could happen again. Alex swung her head out of the doorway, like looking both ways before crossing the street, and took a timid step outside, holding on to the metal ladder that ran the length of the ship. She made her way aft where there was an outboard light, blinking slowly. Alex thought through the long, slow crawl about what she thought had happened. A piece of debris has punched a hole in the hull of her ship, hit something and either ricocheted, destroying everything back there, or, she hoped, had hit a water line causing it to spray on the alarm system, causing a short in the electrics back there. The chances of that were slim. She also thought about what she would need to do to remedy the situation. She had tools to cut away mangled metal, patches to cover holes from 1 mm to several centimeters. She had epoxy and pipe patches. She had a blow torch. She was sure she had everything she needed to fix any problem. The climb was slow but she knew she had at least a few minutes of oxygen in her tank and the CO2 exchanger seemed to be working. All she needed was a calm steady hand and she had a couple of those. She reached the hull and was surprised to see a hole slightly larger than her fist in it. Peering in gave her a little bit of relief. There was a sizable hole, and it looked like a secondary computer had been smashed a bit but everything else looked safe. Looking through the hole she could see that the door’s locking mechanism worked perfectly, welding itself shut once the pressure began to destabilize. The wrecked computer was what had probably sent the rest of the ship into emergency floodgate protocol; releasing all the internal gas out into the void. It was a safety precaution, in case the oxygen was contaminated with some space virus or if there was a fire inside. It was an old protocol but no one argued its practicality. Alex clutched a rung of ladder and reached for her tool kit. She pulled out a large circular metal plate and a gun filled with a metallic caulk. She laid a bead slightly larger than the hole all around the plate and smashed it down on the ship, covering the hole. She took out her plasma torch and began melting the plate just enough to meld the outermost edge of the plate to the ship. While the torch labored, a small light began to glint off of Alex’s visor. She didn’t think much of it, shrugging it off to the torch light. When she had finished and set the torch aside, the slight glint was still visible. She turned her head to see a line of bright light stretching all the way across her field of vision. It was completely static but she couldn’t seem to focus her eyes on it, only if she looked at it indirectly could she see what it was; a wave. Alex scrambled, unsure of how much time she had before this wave of force thrashed on her and her ship. Her breath quickened and her once placid movements were now economical and frantic. She grabbed her tools and began moving down the ladder toward the airlock, skipping rungs. She could now plainly see that the wave was getting closer, the light getting brighter. She grabbed a rung and flung herself down, toward the door, and then she noticed something that she had forgotten. She never managed to clip herself to the ship. She had no safety net to grab her if the worst were to happen. She quickly grabbed at a rung but fumbled due to the speed and her bulky gloves. She floated closer to the door and managed to land a single hand firmly on the last rung. Her body swung as her momentum tossed the rest of her body forward, her feet flying over her head. It might have looked funny had it not been such a horrifying moment. Alex caught her breath for a second, relieved that she had a grasp on the ship, on “firm ground”. Then the wave hit. If she had been closer to the ship it might have rolled right over her, but she was basically vertical, perpendicular to the craft and thus a very broad target. She gritted her teeth closed her eyes against the punch to her gut. When she managed to regain her breath she opened her eyes only to see that her hand was no longer on the ladder. The ship was floating away. She could see through the small windows on the bridge the crew working on the computers, redirecting power, too busy to notice she had lost her grip. She tapped on her helmet and whimpered into her mic “Mayda, Mayday, hello anyone? I’m not tethered. I repeat I am no longer on the ship”. She could see through the window as no one reacted. “Again mayday, mayday this Alex Pattinson, I am adrift, I repeat I am adrift”. Still no response. She scrambled to find what the issue was when her heavy breathing began to fog her visor. She started to feel a chill as she noticed that her heating was offline. She turned her receiver on and didn’t even get static. She tried checking her vitals through the suits apparatus but there was nothing. Her suit’s wiring had been fried by the wave that had hit her. She cried. Her mind raced. She screamed. Then she caught her breath and stilled herself. The ship wasn’t too far away, maybe a few dozen yards. She still had her tool pack with her. A plan began to emerge. He breath quickened but she managed to stifle it a little. She had no idea how much oxygen she had left and she was going to need it. She turned to face the ship and started rifling through the various tubes and wires that she could reach. She knew exactly where the components she needed to manipulate were. Using her plasma torch, she would score a tiny hole in her oxygen tank which should have enough pressure to push her back to the ship. However she didn’t want to fly past it so she would have to quickly cover the hole back up. She grabbed the epoxy from the pack and held it in her free hand. She put the torch under her armpit and felt around for the correct tank. If she got it wrong, well she wouldn’t be able to complain about it for very long. She ran through the components of her suit: warning system, pump, water, main oxy, main life support, containment, battery, secondary oxy. She went back to her primary oxygen tanks and brought a shaky torch to it. She held the epoxy in her other hand ready to cover the hold she was about to make. She breathed a couple more breaths very slowly and steeled herself. She took one last gulp of air, like it was the most precious thing in the world and it was being given away for free. She sparked the torch for just a second. No change, it must not have gone through. She sparked it again and felt herself jerk forward. In the confusion, or in just the horror of the moment, she forgot which hand she had the epoxy in and struck up the torch again but only for a second. Still, it was enough to cause her to spin a little. Correcting herself she stuffed the epoxy gun right where she had the torch and shot the whole canister. She was moving toward the ship, quicker than she wanted but it shouldn’t be a problem. The problem was the slight rotation she had. The extra push was pulling her shoulders down and to the right slightly. She spread her arms as wide as she could hoping to counter the effect even just a little and it managed to slow her a bit, but it was still too much. At this rate her back would be to the door when she reached it. She pulled her arms and legs in as tight as she could, causing her to spin faster. When she felt that she was upside down she unwrapped herself and waited as the ship slowly came back into view. As she approached she saw in the windows the crew was hard at work when Charlie looked out to see Alex making her way back toward the ship. She could see his astonishment and pallor when he recognized her troubling predicament. She was just happy that someone saw her coming. She motioned, a knock on her helmet, that her radio was out and then pointed to the airlock. Charlie nodded and quickly ran from the window causing the rest of the crew to look out the window and witness their captain.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The most brilliant, saturated orangey-reds I had ever witnessed were spread above me in a sheet of shuddering glory. Maple trees had no rival when it came to changing clothes for the season. They also excelled at boosting my mood as I hobbled from the building behind me; each assisted step picked a careful route along the blacktop until I made it to our vehicle. My husband pulled open the passenger side door, guiding me in with a steady hand and an encouraging smile. I loved those inviting fissures by his eyes and mouth--today more than any other day. Wrinkles are, after all, a testament to multitudes of expressions. The deepest marks of joyful times have been our default for years. I paused to take in the sound of rustling overhead. Several paper thin, star-shaped treasures had alighted on the roof of the car, perfectly contrasting with the dark blue paint. More littered the ground like pops of paint splashes on the pavement. My husband had been waiting, his hand on the car door. He didn’t rush me. With a nod of consent, the door closed. The shivers of fall were left outside. I told myself I could do this. The inconvenience of it all would be behind me in a few months’ time. And I had that ever-helpful soul beside me--still smiling as he entered the car--offering his boundless encouragement. By the time we reached home, the swelling had tightened my sewn-up leg. Sitting awkwardly in the car had stifled any previous lift from the colors of the outside world. I needed help just to gain my good leg; humiliating and awkward. My breath caught, and a tear slipped between my squinted eyelids. My love was there, holding my arm and reaching with the other. He asked me what he can do, but the answer is nothing. What I tell him, however, is far less amiable. A callous comment emerges. I resented myself in that moment for allowing physical and emotional pain to override my default. No more smiles. Not now. The journey up the stairs was excruciating, but every step, he was there. Whatever hurt my current state may have caused him never showed. How could he love this wrecked soul as such? Even I wanted to run far from my broken body. I told myself it was temporary. The medicine would kick in, and my leg would heal when it’s ready. Any internal and external division could be mended until it was back to our default. By the time the nerve blocker wore off at two a.m., I stirred to a frightening level of pain ripping through the surgical site. My husband had slept in the other room to allow me extra peace since he tended to snore. Everything was still and dark around me; stifling me. I wanted to scream, but I forced my fingers to the light switch... The pill bottle... I nearly fumbled the cap. A single tablet slipped down my throat with a gulp of water. After thirty minutes of writhing in silence--my pillow moistened with tears--I still felt the pressure building. Only then did I recall the doctor saying I could take two pills if necessary. Fear of addiction or side-effects had buried that detail. Another pill made its way down my throat. I prayed, and whimpered. The golden light of my favored salt lamp carried none of the healing hues of autumn. It highlighted the walls of my prison. How pathetic I felt to give myself over to pride and fear. I understood it then; why people begged to be allowed to die. A pain so great, I might have chosen death as an outlet? How could I possibly have equated myself to someone with a terminal illness? A war injury? Anything far more severe than the corrective surgery I endured for my fractured bone? I told myself the pain would subside. With deep, even breaths, the edge of it faded. I had no idea how long the ordeal lasted, and I didn’t care. The worst was over. Surely, I was forever past that horrific level of physical agony. Sleep beckoned me with healing comfort. By the time two weeks of spending every day in bed had passed, the full weight of confinement had settled into my subconscious. Before then, I never fully understood depression. I had short bouts in high school and college, mostly prompted by heartbreak or family struggles, but nothing so all-encompassing as that smothering notion that I may never move past this blockage. My husband reclaimed his side of the bed, waking for work. Gentle as always, his fingers drifted through the sheets to find mine. A warm touch of skin and kind words reminded me that his mother would assist me today. I nodded. When he dressed and prepared to leave, I had no smile for him. My default felt as far away as the leaves carried on the wind. He kissed me anyway, infected by my somber mood. I loathed myself again. What must he have thought of me lying there? I could no longer cook our delicious meals or clean up after our cat. His tasks had tripled while I was stagnant. I told myself I was healing; that this will be a memory we laugh about over cinnamon tea next autumn. The unfortunate truth was I didn’t believe it. Did he? I couldn’t tell. By the time I was able to descend the stairs unassisted, the pain pills had become a memory. My love and his brother had installed a new rail for extra support. I almost tumbled once when my crutches slipped, but I kept the incident to myself. My pride was lapping enough at its wounds. I was determined to do some cleaning; cook something for dinner...bring the light back into life. My husband had new lines in his forehead. His crinkling mouth was less intense, and twice he called my best friend over to help coax my spirit out from deep inside me. This wasn’t me; so dejected and forlorn. If I didn’t work to start fixing it, would this mood shadow our lives for years to come? It was awkward, moving about the kitchen with rubber wedged under my arms and the inability to use my hands. It took four times longer than typical, but the components of a decent meal were prepped. He would be home soon. I told myself I could mend it all. Every frown, every sobbing demand to be left to my misery would dissolve into the texture of spiced chicken and rice. By the time the dried remnants of fall littered the back deck, I was able to confidently dodge around them with my two metal companions supporting me. This time while I relished the crisp edge of the breeze, my husband was with me. Both of us leaned into the rail to watch the few remaining leaves clutch to almost entirely bare branches. He said, “No more crutches next week.” My default had trickled back to me. I could feel it tugging at my mouth, riding on the fact that independence would soon be mine again. “Can’t wait. I know it’ll ease your mind, too.” He hummed a reply, the lines which had deepened from my worst days returning to his forehead. Did I dare to ask what weighed on him now? Hadn’t I fixed it all with my earlier apologies, dinners, laundry... “What I can’t understand,” he said after a gradual sigh, “is why you didn’t call for me. I was right there. I could have...but you didn’t even cry.” His words locked my shoulders, flinging me back to the day of the accident. The support I was climbing had broken. All my weight landed on a sharp edge. I pitched forward, feeling a crack at the source of explosive agony. I couldn’t get enough purchase to free my leg. How am I going to get myself out of this? A stranger ran to help. My husband’s voice came soon after. “Babe, what happened? Your leg’s bleeding!” His strong arms pulled me up, but I fell to the ground in silent suffering until I could finally blubber between ragged breaths that my injury was serious. By the time my reverie deposited me back on the deck, I turned to meet the pinched countenance of my husband. The entire time, he had been hurt the most by my pride; that I fought relying on him like an animal lashing out at a rescuer. A lifetime of doing for myself out of necessity had created an interior distance that couldn’t be fixed by exterior means. “It honestly didn’t occur to me to call for help.” “That doesn’t seem weird to you?” Didn’t it? Shouldn’t it? With all the extra time I had to think and pity myself, I hadn’t realized how odd my reaction had been. Wouldn’t any normal person have called out? When had I reached for such an insular goal as never requiring help? Such a notion had no place in a marriage where two people endeavored together to form an unbreakable bond. My hand alighted on his, turning his attention to me. “It’s been hard feeling so helpless. But I couldn’t have gotten through without you.” And I mean those words. A fraction of shadow lifts from his features. It wasn't enough. “Will you keep helping me?” “Of course.” I shook my remaining pride away. “No, I mean continue helping me learn what it means to count on you?” His new forehead crease disappeared; replaced by his signature smile. I joined him in our renewed default. My scarred leg with its new interior hardware will forever serve as a reminder; a true tragedy is squandering the perspective gained from adversity.


Through a steamy nightclub window young adults are seen having the time of their lives; talking, dancing, sweating, drinking, hooking up and popping pills. Electric music is playing and dance lights are in full effect. A smaller group is at the bar; all in their early twenties. Jules is in the center. She is a knockout in a sexy but classy black dress rocking gorgeous black stilettos. “Drinks on me” as Jules passes shots out to everyone. “Tonight we celebrate, um, let’s see, what’s our excuse tonight?”, giggling. The gang in unison, “Cheers to Jules”. “Cheers to our successes,” Jules toasting back. Her friends laugh and pound their shots effortlessly before heading to dance. As Jules walks her body moves confidently across the dance floor. All pause and stare. She is full of charisma, full of life. She is the one they idolize at that moment. It’s now late. Jules stumbles out of her Uber, catching a heel, and nearly falling. The driver looks at his clock, 4 am, and then back to Jules with a look of pity. “Thank you for the ride.” She curtsies. “Much appreciated” as she raises a bottle of vodka to him and puts an unlit cigarette in her mouth. “You are welcome young lady,” replies the driver. Jules turns, struggling to find her keys deep in her purse as she sways side to side, making her way home. She pauses and steadies herself as she looks to the sky. The clouds have parted and the moon and stars are brighter than ever. The sky shimmers and the clarity is astounding. The driver looks out of his window to see what has caught her eye. Both sigh a deep breath and seem to relax. Jules continues her journey to the front door. Her protector watches until she makes it safely inside before driving off to his next rescue. Jules locks the front door and peels off her jacket, missing the couch. It falls to the floor. She finds her way to the hall and turns on the light stopping briefly to enjoy pictures of friends and family vacations. Her eyes are drawn to her college graduation photo. Jules is surrounded by loved ones and her heart swells as she reminisces. Snapping out of her trance she turns and wobbles into the bathroom. She fumbles with her dress and underwear, refusing to give up her vodka bottle, finally plopping down onto the toilet. Her feet are wide to brace herself as she feels the spin of the earth's rotation begin to speed up. At that moment she notices a large gouge in her otherwise perfect stiletto. Running her fingers along the imperfection she desperately tries to remember how she could have damaged this extravagance. “What a waste,” she mumbles to herself. At that moment her head and body lift. A beautifully tiny creature slowly lowers down on a single strand of spider silk. She freezes and stares in amazement at the true elegance directly in front of her. Its long legs dangle and move in slow motion. It’s dancing a special dance for her eyes only. She watches every melodic movement entranced as if noticing life’s natural beauty for the first time. “You are incredible,” she says softly. As the spider's position moves closer to the ground it now has a dance partner with which it remains in perfect synch. Jules watches the spiders dance captivated. Without notice, tears begin to flow from her eyes as she breathes slow, shallow breaths. The spiders eloquently dance to the floor and disappear under the sink. Jules pauses and her attention is drawn back to the gouge in her shoe. She takes off her shoes and throws them in the trash, rising up from the toilet, more steady, almost sober. Jules looks in the mirror. Her hair is a mess and makeup is running down her face. She's half the woman she was earlier in the evening. She tilts her head sideways, “What the fuck am I doing to myself?” She dumps the vodka down the sink and throws the empty bottle and cigarette into the trash. She wipes away her tears, slowly cleans off her makeup, and brushes back her hair neatly. She fixes her dress and stands tall, confident once again. Jules walks out toward the wall of pictures relishing in all she has to be proud of before turning out the lights.


"I think the fear of being blind comes from feeling as though you'll miss the world around you." Detective Stevens sat across from the painter, a chill in the air. The frost of December glazed the lone window obstructing the view of the yard beyond. Accompanying the conversation was the occasional pop of a log from the fireplace. Standing on an easel on the far side of the room, was a painting draped in a dark cloth. "Sir, you do understand that people are going mad after viewing your painting?" Detective Stevens stared into the cloudy eyes of the man, "some have even resorted to suicide." The silence hung in the air like a bad odor. "Do you even know what you painted?" Still the painter refused to answer. Detective Stevens climbed out of his chair and slowly approached the covered artwork. The soft satin cloth glared at him with it's blank expression. For some reason he couldn't explain, Stevens felt afraid to reveal it. One trembling hand reached forward. "Don't!" The painter yelled, standing up from his chair "do that detective" For a moment his hand hung in the air. An eternity passed in those few seconds. The room seemed to stand in suspended animation as he decided if he would obey the painter. His hand dropped. The painter spoke. "Do you know what it's like to create art you can't see detective?" The painter raised his slim figure from the leather backed chair. Slowly, he felt his way across the room to a bottle of whiskey setting near the fire place. He removed the cap. "Drink?" He asked as he poured himself a glass. "No thank you" the detective responded. The clinking of ice cubes rang out in rhythm with the painters steps as he approached Stevens. The aroma of the drink gently made it's way into his nostrils. God he wanted a drink. This whole investigation had him on edge. "I may not be able to see my work detective," the painter sipped his drink, "but I know every single line I paint. The abstract visions of a blind man granted me sanctuary after my accident. There was no guarantee anyone would like these images detective. But I was blessed." The familiar silence filled the room once again. A strong breeze rattled the windows. A storm was brewing outside. "So I decided to show everyone my blessing detective, and the world couldn't handle it." The painter walked back towards the fire. Detective Stevens remained glued to his spot, the covered artwork taunting him. Every single person who has viewed this painting became incoherent, their native tongue degraded into a string of nonsense. Numerous tests were ran but it was impossible to get any information from them. Because all of the viewings had been in private at the artists request, no one could explain what they had seen. Now Stevens was so close to solving the mystery. "Look at it detective." The painter had his back turned to Stevens as he talked. Stevens looked over his shoulder at the painter before returning his gaze to the painting. He felt his heartbeat at the tips of his fingers. Once again he reached towards the cloth. This time he would commit to removing it. Between his thumb and pointer finger, he grasped the cloth slowly pulling it off of the frame. A gentle thud came from the sheet as it landed on the hard wood floor. Detective Stevens wasn't sure what he had expected to see beneath that cloth, but he was certain it wasn't the mirror that greeted him. "What the hell," He stared at his own look of surprise as he spoke. His eyes widened as he glimpsed the painter behind him. The painter stood still with his hand dangling by his side still holding his glass of whiskey. But something else was there. A dark figure appeared to protrude from his back just below his neck. Two arms as dark as midnight wrapped around the painters head. "Now you see it detective." The painter slowly turned around to face Stevens. Clawed hands clasped around the painters eyes completely covering his face. As he made his way closer to the detective, the second face became visible. A twisted mass nearly void of features save for a mouth kept it's lips pressed close to the painters ears, lips moving as though whispering endlessly. There was no body , instead it seemed to protrude from within the detective like a parasite. "This is my blessing." The painter rested his hand upon Stevens' shoulder once again. Detective Stevens was completely petrified as he stared into the mirror. He could do nothing but watch as the head slowly placed it's lips up to his ears. Then the whispering began. Whispers of secrets no man should hear. Whispers that shattered Stevens mind leaving him staring dumbfounded at his own reflection. The painter slowly walked past Stevens. He stooped down and retrieved the cloth from the floor. With great finesse, he hid the mirror once again. "Now you see it detective." The painter ushered Stevens to the door. "My blessing IS my greatest work of art.


"RatHoney? I'm home!" With a weary, but grateful to be home tone, a RatDad walked into the straw stuffed RatHome, taking off his RatHat and loosening his RatTie. It had been a long, cold day in the Danish RatFields scavenging for scraps and grains beneath the frozen Earth, and his RatBoss was in a particularly foul mood about it. He squeaked and eeked non-stop, verbally berating all the RatWorkers. Maybe he had a point. Maybe RatBoss was right about none of the Rats working hard enough when they were digging and scratching in the RatField, but the way RatBoss insulted and RatScreamed at them was too excessive for this RatDad's likes. That's why it was a relief for him to finally make it back to his RatHome and see his RatWife and RatKids. "RatDad!" Several of his RatKids slithered and scuttled out of their hidey holes and surrounded RatDad, encircling him before ultimately leaping at him all at once for a big, warm RatFamily hug-a-thon. "RatMom's making garbage stew tonight!" The eldest RatKid squeaked with unbridled excitement. "Garbage stew?" RatDad looked over to his RatWife with a coy smile, "That stuff tastes like *garbage!*" It was his favorite RatDad joke and his RatKids loved it every time. The RatGiggles warmed his heart, and RatMom, tending to the garbage stew, looked over to RatDad and shook her head playfully in mock annoyance. RatDad winked at his RatWife whom he loved so dearly. Just then, the rumble of a vehicle approaching reverberated through RatTown. The RatKids got nervous. RatDad held them tightly, his RatEars twitching with attentiveness. He hushed his RatKids focusing on the vehicle’s characteristics. It felt strange. It didn’t seem like the usual truck of the HumanFarmer, and if it was, there’d be no reason for the HumanFarmer to drive this truck so close to RatTown. RatDad sniffed the air, but couldn’t pick up a good scent over the delicious aroma of the garbage stew. “RatKids, go to your hidey holes...” Scared, they scurried away, all but the eldest RatKid. “RatDad? Is there something wrong? I wanna help.” he said, barely masking his frightened trepidation in his RatSqueak. RatMom looked nervous as well. She knew something was wrong. All the adult Rats had been through tough times, through anguish and struggle. Being a Rat her and her RatHusband’s age meant they were survivors. She scurried over to her eldest RatSon. “Listen to your RatDad. He knows what’s best. Go to your hidey hole and make sure your RatBrothers and RatSisters are okay. Tell them to stay quiet and stay hidden.” RatKid looked very scared now, but mustered up enough courage to run off to the hidey holes. “What do you think it is, RatDear?” The RatWife said, huddle close to him. “I’m not sure... You stay here with our RatFamily. I’m going to go out and see if any other Rats know what’s going on. I love you” He gave her a RatKiss on the forehead and headed out the door of their burrow and into RatTown. A few of his RatNeighbors were already out in the open grain silo, the foundation upon which RatTown sat. They were sniffing the air and feeling the ground with all four paws, like their ancestors used to do back before HumanMade homes, back when a Rat had to rely on all his senses and his wits to make in the deep, boreal forests of old. RatBoss was out there, too. It was odd to see him outside of RatWork, but it was reassuring to see him as just another concerned Rat just like another Rat in RatTown. The vehicle came to a stop. All the Rats were standing up now, listening intently. Was that the sound of a sliding door? The unlocking of something... It was hard to tell what was happening out there. A RatFriend quietly scurried over to RadDad, softly nudged his ribs, and spoke, “RatMarc, what do you reckon it is?” RatMarc, thinking of his RatKids and RatWife he left just a few moments ago, felt the adrenaline rising in his stomach and chest. His RatHeart was beating fiercely. “I don’t know. Just be ready.” Something landed on the snow outside of RatTown. A few footsteps crunched. RatMarc thought to himself, “Maybe it’s just the HumanFarmer and he got a new truck. Maybe he’s just picking a tool or something he forgot in RatTown.” Suddenly the door burst open to the sounds of barking and a beast tearing through the snow and dirt. A Dog! Barking and snarling, full of sharp teeth and single-minded hatred for Rats, The Dog lunged at the crowd of terrified Rats. RatMarc scurried as fast as he could and over his shoulder he could see his RatBoss in the jaws of the monster, the massive, yellowing teeth sunk deep into his abdomen. RatBoss squeaked in vain, but the Dog shook his head side to side so violently, so uncaring for RatLife. A mist of RatBlood was flung in the air, and in just seconds, RatBoss was dead. Two Humans were at the door now. RatMarc had never seen them before. They no doubt controlled the beast as they wide, full-toothed smiles did not even try to mask their jubilation for the coming RatMassacre. They cheered on the Dog. “Ja! Ja! Dræb rotterne!” They yelled with enthusiasm as the Dog pounced on and ripped apart another RatBrother. RatMarc did not know the language of the Humans, nor did he ever care to learn the tongue of such demons, but he could tell they were encouraging and directing their murdering Dog. Running down another rat, the Dog was making quick work of RatTown and hardly tiring. RatMarc heard the RatScreams and RatSqueals behind him. RatGuts and viscera was being wetly dropped down to the RatTown streets. The bodies were piling up already. He rushed as fast as he could, staying low, using the HumanJunk and HumanTools as cover like his RatFather taught him. He had to get home. He had to make it back to his RatKids and his RatWife. The terrible barking in the background. The pleading and panicking and praying of his defenseless RatBrethren. The Humans laughing and clapping. RatMarc burst through the door of his RatHome. “RatKids!? RatHoney!?” His RatWife was at the entrance of the hidey holes trying to calm the RatKids over the sound of a RatMassacre and thunderous, devilish bark of a Rat killing Dog. “Burrow! Dig deeper! The Dog can not reach you if you dig as deep as you can! Do not stop!” His eldest RatSon poked his head out of the hidey hole entrance. He was still just a RatChild... “RatDad... You’re coming too, right?” The awful sound of destruction and chomping coming from his RatNeighbor’s RatHome vibrated through his own. The crunching of RatBones, the spilling of RatGuts, the hysterical sobbing of his RatFamily just next door... RatDad was able to visualize it all too clearly. He knew what he had to do. He scurried over to his RatWife and RatSon. “RatSon... You have to dig. You have to go, now. I can distract the Dog. I’m quick enough, I think, but you have to burrow. Think of your RatSiblings, think of your RatMom. You have to dig now!” He embraced his son and there was a silent understanding that this would be the last time they see each other. With tears in his RatEyes, the eldest RatKid jumped back into the hidey holes and started yelling out orders to burrow and dig as far and as deep as they possibly could. He turned to his RatWife now, not even trying to fight back the tears. They held each other tight, RatKissed. The door to his RatHome exploded open with the clawing paws of the Dog. “GO! NOW!” She stumbled and made her way to the hidey holes to help her RatSon burrow their RatFamily to safety. The humongous, sword-like teeth of the Dog snapped and growled at RatMarc now, its DogSnout shoved into their once quiet home. He had to time this right. He had to lead the Dog away from his family, to give them time to burrow, to give them a chance to live. His RatWife cried out, “I love you, RatMarc!” The Dog pulled his head back for a moment, RatMarc did not even have time to return the sentiment. He sprinted through the small opening of his ruined RatHome and the terrible beast. Running and hopping over debris and bodies, he heard the howling and barking of the Dog on his tail. It was working. The Dog was following him! He used his agility to try to out maneuver the Dog, squeezing between tools, leaping into cracks, weaving out of garbage, but the Dog’s brute strength and relentlessness hardly slowed it down. If he could only run long enough and get out of RatTown, then maybe, just maybe the Dog and the Humans would think he was the last scared Rat in RatTown. The pursuing Dog slipped on a patch of loose dirt and its back legs flung out from under it. Thudding to the ground and yelping, RatMarc knew this was a lucky break, and so he poured everyone once of energy he could into scurrying passed the humans and out the Silo. If they wanted to hunt him down in the wildness of old, then so be it. The blood of a thousand ancestors ran through his veins, survivors all. Just two Humans at the door, nothing more. He scurried right under their feet. *WHACK* RatMarc couldn’t even comprehend what happened. He was dazed, disoriented. One of the chuckling Humans had clubbed him square the gut with a stick. They yelled out in excitement and the Dog trotted over. They looked down at the Dog, and then pointing at RatMarc, commanded, “Fang ham!” The Dog obeyed its master and clamped the blood soaked, sticky with the viscera of the fallen Rats of RatTown, jaw around RatMarc’s neck. “Goodbye, my RatLove...” Were his last thoughts before being violently shaken to death.