Due to circumstances outside of my control, I decided to move across the country. I left everything I had ever known behind. I don’t know if I’m happy about it, or if it’s going to work, but I know it is better than staying in New York. I’m getting ahead of myself however; I must go back to the beginning. I had originally fallen into quite the routine to mange my stressors. I would wake up each morning at precisely 4:30am, from that time I would allow myself 30 minutes to shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, and brew my morning coffee while scarfing down a protein bar. I would then drive to the gym, arriving at precisely 5:30am each morning. From there I would spend 15 minutes stretching, utilizing bands and other implements to ensure that my body was prepared for my workout. Then I would spend an additional 10 minutes doing something to raise my heart rate, doing anything from jogging to light sled pulls. From there, I would spend the next five minutes warming up for whatever muscle group I planned on targeting that day. The time was then 6:00am and I would begin my workout. My workout would continue until 6:50am, at which time I would rush to shower and exit the gym in my suit by 7:00am. I would then drive to a local diner a few minutes from my office, and order the same thing each day: A sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich with an extra egg and hash browns. Although slightly heavier than I would have liked, this meal allowed me to remain satiated until lunchtime. I would sip on coffee while reading the morning news upon my tablet, preparing myself for the day ahead. At 8:00am I would pay my bill, leaving the same tip each day, as It was customary that I would also receive the same waitress each day, who ensured that my coffee remained full, but not refilled too early, as that would ruin the ratio of coffee to creamer in my cup. She also reminded the cook that my eggs needed to be just slightly runny, and my hash browns crispy each morning. In fact, if she were to be off one morning, she would be sure to let me know so that I could make other arrangements. On those days she was absent, I would wake up 30 minutes earlier and arrive and leave the gym 30 minutes ahead of schedule to allow myself to run home and prepare my own breakfast before going in to work. I did not like to leave my meals to chance, because the times that my routine has been interrupted have been... unpleasant. I would then drive to the office, arriving to my desk at precisely 8:30am. This is when my day would truly start. I would spend the next hour poring over the pre market transactions, attempting to glean anything I did not yet know about the securities which I was interested in or held positions in. Once the markets opened at precisely 9:30am, as they did every morning, I would begin making the trades that I had been planning in my head since I had left the office the night before. This would continue until 12:30pm, when I would rise from my desk and go across the street for lunch, again, ordering the same tuna steak and side of wild rice each day, with a large glass of sweet tea. There were two different hostesses that could be working this particular shift, depending on the day. I had trained, for lack of a better word, each of them to provide me the level of service I required to maintain my routine. Like my waitress at breakfast, they would ensure my glass remained full, and my meal properly cooked. They didn’t run quality control, per se, as it wasn’t their job, but they always let the chef know I was there, and reminded them of my discerning taste. By 1:15 this meal would by over, and I would return to my desk for the remainder of the day. I would continue trading and going through research my team had prepared until 4:30pm when the markets closed. At this point, my preparation for the next day would begin. From 4:30pm until 6:00pm I would look over the rest of the research my team had prepared, do a little bit of my own, and develop a plan for the next day. At 6:00pm, I would drive home, shower, change into evening clothes, and cook myself dinner. My dinner would be the only meal that was variable. It could be anything as simple as a cheeseburger, to something as elaborate as a sushi spread with some sort of exotic ramen I would prepare myself. Cooking gave me an opportunity to leave the analytical side of myself behind. Cooking was an art, something that I could deviate from the recipes that I was following in order to create an end result that I would be satisfied with. I didn’t prescribe myself a set time to complete this meal, due to the varying complexities of my dishes. If I needed to create something exceptionally difficult the next day, I would then begin any necessary prep work to ensure that meal would go smoothly. After this point, I would allow myself an hour of leisure, something like video games or Netflix, again, an escape from my analytical mindset. By 9:00 however, my day would be complete. I would then walk to my bed, and head off to sleep. Each day had carried on in this template for years. I was content, and the rigidity of my schedule had allowed me to keep the anger that resided inside me under control. What my peers didn’t know about me is that it is extremely difficult for me to handle deviances from my sense of routine and normality. It is a condition that I do not truly understand. What I do know is that there is an inherent anger and violence to the way I perceive and react to the world. This is perhaps the price I must pay for my great analytical skills and intense discipline. That is, until these urges became far too strong and I was able to resist them no longer. There came a day, that I let myself become consumed in them, and would do something that I wish I could say I regret. It began when I arrived to the gym, which was typically empty and somehow each piece of equipment, dumbbell, or rack I needed would be occupied by someone who had no idea what they were doing, frustrating me even more. Then my waitress at the diner was gone, and her replacement did an extremely subpar job in ensuring the quality of my meal. I was frustrated that my waitress had not warned me beforehand. . I kept the urges inside, but they began to pile up. The markets were crashing that day, something that many times before I had been able to predict, but today I lost vast amounts of money due to my error and the irrationality of the day’s events. I began to unravel, but was able to convince myself that any reaction was not worth it until lunch. I ordered my tuna steak each day seared, with a crusted outside that contained seasoning, and a center that was raw but slightly warm, so as not to be jarring to my pallet against the hot outside. After waiting much longer than usual, the steak came out well done, ruining the cut of fish. That was when I could take these mistakes no more. I rose from my table and walked towards the kitchen to find the chef who had cooked my meal. It was a younger chef than I had typically seen working, but that made the mistake no more acceptable. It was clear that he had no respect for his clients, especially one important enough for the hostesses to warn him about. I then returned to the office, biding my time until the restaurant would close. The chaos around me as the markets continued to crash felt like a blur, I no longer cared and my analytical mind was no more. All I felt was an insurmountable rage that I had been able to keep deep inside for so long. At precisely 9:00pm, the restaurant would close, as it did everyday. At 8:45, I rose from my desk and waited in the lobby of my building, waiting for the chef to exit. It took him 27 minutes after the 9:00pm closing time to exit the restaurant. I began to follow him home, waiting until he was in a back alley when I called out to him. “How hard is it to follow simple instructions?” I ask him. “What the hell are you talking about?” He retorts, clearly not recognizing me. “My tuna steak. I order the same thing every single day. Every day my steak is ordered seared and yet you manage to mess it up, even after being reminded by the hostess and the ticket from the waitress.” “Dude are you kidding me, you seriously are following me to bitch about your lunch being overcooked? Fuck off.” “And now you’re going to disrespect me, after I gave you the chance to apologize or at least some justification for your actions?” “Bro, it’s your lunch. It’s a piece of fish for Christ’s sake, if it’s that big of a deal to you you should have complained earlier and got the meal comped.” “I think it should be clear that money is not my motivation for this. This is about respect and doing your job. This is about ruining my routine.” “Your routine? What the hell are you talking about? You’re out of your mind.” At that, he turned to jog away. But I couldn’t let this exchange go unpunished, so I began to chase after him. I didn’t know what I was going to do until I tackled him and felt the folding knife I keep in my jacket pocket press against my ribs. I reached into my coat, pulled it out, and began stabbing the chef in the back of the neck. I stood up, astonished at what I had done, but not necessarily regretful of it. It felt so good to release the anger I had been bottling up for so long. Once he had finally stopped his pitiful writhing on the ground, I hoisted his body into a dumpster, returned to my car, and drove home. Once home, I cooked the dinner I had prepared the night before, and enjoyed the fact that it was properly cooked. The anger and bloodlust were still within me, and I left the steak even more rare than I typically would, letting the juice drip down my face as I ate. It was at this moment that I knew I must leave. I could no longer control what was within me, and if I wanted to continue living in comfort, I must go. That night I packed all the items I thought I would require in this new life, and in the morning, after allowing myself to sleep in, something I never did, I walked to the bank and withdrew everything from my accounts in cash. I then drove to the dumpster I had left the chef in, and put the body in my passenger seat. On the drive to the river, I pulled each of his teeth and disfigured his face, so that he may be mistaken for myself if he were ever found. I then let the car roll into the river, and walked back to a main road to hail a cab to take me to the airport. I flew to Colorado and purchased an isolated, but grand home to live out the remainder of my days, attempting to isolate myself from anything that I could lash out on. I was no longer the analytical, regimented freak I had been for much of my life, but I had become something far worse. I realized I didn’t care what the consequences for that release I had experienced through that killing were, I realized that the clarity it allowed me to feel was too good not to experience again.


With the thunderous sound of chase behind them they ran hand in hand into the thick boughs of undergrowth and over the knotted roots and damp soil. Thorns and wet flowering leaves poked, scratched and whipped across the exposed skin of their faces, hands and feet as they made their way through the endless green maze. Above within the criss-crossed lattice of branches, leaves and vines the hooting of tiny beasts could be heard. The sounds were a chorus of deep and undulating incantations which almost sounded encouraging as if the tree-bound creatures wanted the them to survive. He imagined that they were the same primate analogues their team had encountered earlier. He risked a glance at his wrist to see his holo-sleeve flickering, the thick canopy which loomed above them like a verdant umbrella had limited the solar recharge rate. At this point he'd be surprised if it'd last another two minutes. But two minutes- that was more than enough to place them back on board the capsule. There he could insta-charge and bring up the shields, then get them back to where they needed to be. Which was anywhere but here, away from this horrifying and terrible place of such unimaginable beauty. A sternum shaking roar from behind lit all of his senses on fire. He turned to look back trying to gauge their chances of survival by how far away the abomination, the pure and utter terror that was the dominant life form on this- His foot snagged on a thick root and hand in hand they were flying, their inertia tumbling them through the air like ragdolls. He slammed into an upright log thick with green moss, studded with tiny red and white mushrooms. They turned to pulp across his face and into his nostrils, a pungent and musty taste and smell that jolted him back to reality. His fingers closed onto nothing but themselves and thick, wet air. He couldn't see her. A onerous breath left him, he'd broken at least three ribs. It hurt to breathe, to exist. He willed the stars out of his eyes and stood weakly, bracing himself against a gnarled and decaying trunk. His holo-sleeve was screaming, medical warnings emblazoned in red and orange flickered across the rapidly fading display. He blinked it away, shutting off the annoying and location betraying klaxon that signaled serious impairment. The pain in his chest was so severe that he didn't but barely notice the bites being taken out of his fingers by the tiny insectoids which swarmed over his hand, frenzied by the smell of blood. The holo-sleeve began to emanate a pulsing sound, the signature tone which meant the homing beacon on the capsule was close. Another bone shaking roar sprung forth from the green labyrinth. The beast was getting closer. They were in trouble. He called out to her, scanning the foliage - limping forward he reached a break in the treeline. Before him he saw the opalescent capsule laid out perfectly upon a patch of flattened white grass like a porcelain teacup atop an equally elegant saucer. It's canopy was sealed and she was already inside. She'd left him. His holo-sleeve chirped again, this time it was her voice. The area around the capsule began to shimmer, he saw her as a flickering myth, a mirage across the sea of time and and his heart sank. The choir in the trees abruptly ceased and the heavy air was silent save for the ragged pounding of his own heartbeat. The nightmare burst forth from the green hell they'd found themselves in. It's horrible maw open wide, ready to receive him. He closed his eyes to embrace a mercifully swift and hopefully painless journey into eternity- his only regret that he never told her. As the four sets of jaws closed around their prey the holo-sleeve chirped one last time. He expected to hear an apology, only she said she loved him.


Part I: The Speech “Humans ruin everything. These were the last words my mother said to me. She said, ‘In all my years on this world only one thing has remained consistent: Humans ruin everything.’ She was right. They destroyed the land we shared in the name of their innovation. They fought with each other for ownership of something no one should own. They even took us from our homes & domesticated us so we could be their pets. We were the lucky ones. Others they hunted. They killed us for food; they killed us for sport. War & climate change & hunting & mass meat production & animal euthanasia & abuse & sports that break our bodies & vehicular animal slaughter & religious sacrifices & the clothes they wear & chemical warfare & animal currency & oil spills & veterinary impounds! Our blood is on their hands. Humans. Ruin. Everything. Humans ruin everything! It’s time we say enough is enough. It’s time we fight back. I know you may think we don’t stand a chance. That their technology is too great. You’re right. Individually, we don’t stand a chance. But we are not individuals. We are a collective. Members of different phyla & classes, yes, but we are one kingdom. One united animal kingdom. Together, we can make a difference. Together, we stand a chance. Which is why I come before you. In times like these, we need unity, not division. we need action, not peacekeeping. We need a leader.” For a moment cheers and indiscernible chants drowned out the speaker. “And I would be that leader!” The chants became more clear as the crowd’s individual shouts shifted to one phrase. “I need you! Your president of the United Animal Kingdom needs you!” At this remark, the noise became overwhelming for minutes. The speaker waited. Eventually silence fell over the crowd again, and he continued. “It is no longer time we fight amongst ourselves! It is no longer time we sit idly by our own abuse! It is time we fight back! They are strong, but we are many. We are in their homes, their places of business, their places of leisure. It is time we fight back!” The cheers washed over the crowd again. “It is time we go to war. Are you with me? Annelida & Nematoda?” There was a brief hesitation, then one section of the crowd lifted their voices. “Amphibians & Reptiles? Birds & Mammals?” This time there was no pause. A united shout came from the largest section of the crowd. “Crustaceans, Labiatae, Porifera, Cnideria, Mollusca & Chelicerates?” The remainder of the crowd rumbled in unison. Then all the crowd stamped and shouted again. The speaker relished in the chaos and waited. When it was silent, he spoke slower and quieter than before. “Humans ruin everything. Enough is enough. To war.” Part II: The Bond I remember everything. I remember where I was: the outdoor court at my school, underneath the basketball hoop with the torn net. I remember what I was wearing: my striped yellow shirt & denim shorts, white tennis shoes with laces undone & a blue baseball cap too big for my small head. I remember everything about the day when the speech played over the broadcast. Car radios, televisions, anything that could transmit audio, all a conduit for dissension. I remember when the chatter of the school principal over my PA system was interrupted by a piercing frequency. The frequency was underlaid by three abrupt, almost indiscernible words that changed the course of the world: humans ruin everything. The reaction was slow, then everything all at once. First no panic, just confusion. Children ceased play; teachers looked to each other for affirmation that they heard it too. Then something changed in the world around us, as the world around us turned its head to fight back. I heard it before I saw it. A soft buzz, like the sound of my dad’s electric razor. Louder, then louder, like the swarm of bees that chased me the summer before this one. Then the sharp trill from a teacher’s whistle as a horde of dogs, cats, and rodents reached the crest of the hill behind my schoolyard. Then I ran. I’d never owned an animal. I loved animals, but my parents said they did not want pets in the house. I always loved animals though. My parents initially objected when I told them I wanted to be vegetarian, but eventually they gave in. Whenever the school cafeteria gave me ham sandwiches I would only eat the bread. I took the deli slices off and put them in my pocket. Then at recess I went to the dumpsters behind the school and shared my leftovers with the stray dog who lived there. I ran into the school, through the hallways, and into my classroom where I crouched under my desk and listened. The sound of violence, barks and hisses and screams, broke through the walls. Over the sounds from outside, I heard the pitter patter of feet trotting in the hallway. The steps grew louder as they approached the classroom, then they stopped. The door creaked and I regretted not checking it was shut. I heard short, shallow breaths, like sniffing. The intruder cast a monstrous shadow on the wall opposite me. I held my breath. The pitter patter continued, loud then quieter. I waited until the steps were far enough away, then I crawled toward the door. I eased the door open far enough to poke my head out. I heard a low growl that made the hair on my arm stand up. At the end of the hallway I saw a dog. The dog wasn’t growling at me. It wasn’t even looking at me. What was it growling at? Against my better judgment, I pushed my slim body out of the classroom and into the hallway. As I got closer, I recognized the merle coat of the stray dog from the dumpsters. He was standing in the doorway, blocking entry from other animals outside the doorway. A raccoon and two cats pawed and hissed at my protector, but he maintained his stance. One of the cats lunged at him first, then the other animals followed. I saw the flash of claws and heard the snap of teeth. It was over in an instant. A cat and a raccoon stumbled away, the other cat lay still. The dog turned and sauntered to me. I extended my hand, palm open. His tongue tickled my fingers when he licked my hand. “You saved me, buddy. Thank you.” When we made eye contact I got caught in the contrast of his eyes, one a warm brown, the other a piercing blue. Under his blue eye was a fresh cut. The bright red against the blue made me feel nauseous. “Come on, buddy, the nurse’s office isn’t far. We gotta get you cleaned up.” He put his head down and sighed, then licked at his leg. He’d been bit there too. “You’re really hurt. It’s okay, I’ll carry you.” He wasn’t too heavy. Being a stray kept him slim. He licked my face while I walked down the hall with him in my arms. When we got to the nurse’s office, supplies from medical kits were dumped on the ground and pillaged through. It looked like the year before when a hurricane hit. I found the disinfectant, a towel, and a bandage. “Sorry buddy, this might sting.” He blinked, unfazed. “Okay, here goes.” After I’d wrapped his leg in bandages, we sat in the nurse’s office for a while to let his leg heal. “The world is going to be different now. If humans and animals are fighting, there will be war everywhere.” Sadness ran over my body like winter’s cold. “We can’t stay here. No one will let a human and a dog be together as long as there’s war.” He rested his head on my lap and whimpered. “Don’t worry, boy. I’ll get us out of here.” My eyes drifted to the wall with a framed map of South Dakota, my home state. “I think you need a name. How about Dakota?” His ears perked up. “Don’t worry Dakota. I’ll get us out of here.” My eyes lingered on the map, and I remembered the trip my class took to the South Dakota Air and Space Museum the year before. I pet Dakota between his ears and his eyes flicked open and shut, fighting sleep. “I think I know a way to get us out of here, Dakota. Get some rest now, we’ll leave soon.” Part III: The Voyage We are drifting. I don’t know where we are. I don’t know where we are going. He says that it will be okay. I believe him. I’m not sure how long it’s been since we left. It wasn’t meant to end this way, humans destroying the world, and the world destroying humans. We could have lived together peacefully. Maybe humans are to blame. That dog on the radio didn’t believe most of what it said, it only wanted to create division and seize power. I can’t believe it worked. Animals everywhere bought into the lies, and now the world may never be the same. So long pale blue dot. The dog on the radio said that humans ruin everything, that all humans are bad. Maybe humans are to blame. But I don’t think they’re all bad. I think I found a good one. He says we’re going somewhere without war. He says that it will be okay. I believe him.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Prompt: It was a day that would change their lives forever.** - **Bonus Constraint: A meal is shared.** *(There may be extra points available for the use of “gobble gobble”.)* This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as **inspiration** for your story. You may interpret the prompt *any way you like*, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). The bonus constraint is not required. **Don’t forget to after the submission deadline!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. You can complete the following things for points. - **Use of prompt/constraint:** 20 points (required) - **Use of bonus constraint:** 5 points, unless otherwise stated (not required) - ***Actionable* Feedback:** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting nominations:** 5 points (total) *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings This week, the rankings include just one spot, as there were only four stories. I hope to see more next week! And happy Thanksgiving to everyone who will be celebrating it this Thursday! *Gobble Gobble.* - **First:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite *Note: Crit Stars receive 1 Crit Credit on r/WPCritique, but in order to receive Crit Credits, you must have made at least 1 post on that subreddit or have linked your accounts on our Discord.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and other fun events! - Join in our weekly writing chat on . We discuss a new topic every week! New here? Come introduce yourself! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I know what this is. This whole “life” thing. Great thinkers around the world have dedicated their lives to the question. What is the meaning of life? Or they ponder “why are we here?” Well, I will tell you why. I’ve recently been having those dreams again. The ones my mother would tell me to keep to myself. “People would think you were crazy!” She’d tell me, as if being crazy is some awful thing. If being crazy means knowing the truth to our existence then go ahead and call me crazy. I’m proud to be one of the few that have discovered that our reality is nothing but a role. I am the protagonist. You are the protagonist. Each and every one of our tales is a fabrication to which we all are the stars. It makes me laugh. All my life I’ve wanted to be famous, and now I know. I was born famous. You’re probably wondering what I’m blathering on about. Well, to make things clear and concise, YOU A WORK OF FICTION. This is indicative of a few things: You do not have free will Nothing is matters Nothing is real You are not A sentient Being. Gloomy, isn’t it? I thought so too. When I first dreamed this dream, I fell into despair. My dreams have never been wrong. I dreamed of the fall of the towers two weeks before I watched them burn. I dreamed of the virus that would plague the world, and I dreamed of how to survive it. I survived that, of course. I’m a survivor. At my age, I’ve seen it all. I’m glad I learned this final lesson when I did, as opposed to back in the day when my joints didn’t hurt. When I had ambitions, friends, and lovers. The rest of my days, of which there aren’t many, will be spent in pure despondency. I can at least say I enjoyed most of the time I’ve had. If there’s one piece of advice I have to give the young ones of this day, it’s that you must enjoy your life as much as you can. Cherish your youth and never take your life for granted. At least, while you still can. There was a girl named Sylvia, back when I still thought I was real. I sure thought she was real. A real good person, and a real fine lady. She liked me back for a little while. You know how things go. You have friends in school, then you graduate. See each other less. You might talk a little, but not much. Before you know it, you just forget each other exist. Or at least you no longer exist in each other’s world, though you think about them every once in a while, wondering why you don’t reach out. She always understood me. Either that or she was the best damned actress in the world. I told her about my dreams, and she didn’t look at me with those concerned, judging eyes. I don’t know why I didn’t marry her. Mother told me not to tell anyone, but I told Sylvia. She thought I had the most interesting mind. A mind that comes up with such fascinating ideas. Sure, she didn’t believe my dreams, but she didn’t scorn me for them either. She didn’t think it absurd when I said my that dreams foretold the future. Maybe she was just being polite. But she realized. She must have realized when my dream occurred in real life, or what I once thought was real life. The fires. It was the fires. She didn’t know me when my first prediction came true as a child.I told her about it, but she couldn’t truly believe, for she had not witnessed it. But when one dream I had told her about finally happened, she must have realized. I’ll bet you a million bucks it scared her. I could tell the future. So, what else could I do? Was I dangerous? Powerful? I don’t blame her for creating distance between us. But I do want her back. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll believe me. You know what they say; misery loves company. I would love her company right about now. Maybe she would make this pretend life better. Maybe if we both know it’s an illusion, it’ll cancel out. Life could feel real again. Or at least, I’d enjoy it for a little while longer. I decide to find her. When I find her number I hesitate to call. I start typing the numbers, but can’t finish typing. When I finish typing her number I can’t bring myself to press send. Based on how my life has been directed thus far, seldom will I get what I want. Why would this go my way? She could even be dead for all I know. I type the number. I press send. “He-hello?” a quivering voice stuttered. I hear Sylvia’s voice for the first time in 45 years. It’s not the voice I remember, but I know it’s hers. “Sylvia?” I ask. “Yes?” she answers. I feel tears brimming in my saggy eyelids. Things go uphill from there. Now Sylvia is in my home. I’m no baker, but I made her some blueberry scones, knowing she would like that sort of thing. I was right about that. When I tell her my revelation, she doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy. She smiles at me, nodding. “I have come to learn the same thing recently.” She says. “Yet you are smiling!” I exclaim. “We have different perspectives on this.” She says. “I don’t see it as a horrible thing. My life feels so much more relaxing. No more pressure to succeed.” I hadn’t thought of it that way. It doesn’t matter though. “But I have already succeeded. And now I’m retired. I’m just trying to enjoy my last days.” “Who’s to say you can’t enjoy them?” She asks. “How can I? There’s no point to anything.” “You didn’t feel that way all those years. You enjoyed your life. Clearly, you can be no more than a fictional character and still enjoy your life.” Says Lydia, ever wise. “But I don’t have free will. Someone else makes my every decision.” I say. “Who cares? You went your whole life without knowing that and it was fine. Why should it make a difference now?” She is right. And I am feeling bold all of the sudden. “Will you marry me?” I say, seated on my couch since I am not physically capable of getting down on one knee. “I have nothing to lose. Yes.” Suddenly, I don’t care if this is all a hallucination. I’m the happiest man in the world. I have Sylvia. We could live in a ditch together and it wouldn’t matter. We both know the truth. Nothing matters. Nothing’s real. It's all good.


*Commencing Identification Scan* ***Error*** *Identification Failure* *Origin: UNKNOWN* *Commencing Decryption Protocol* *Decrypting...* *Decrypting...* *Decrypting...* *Decryption Complete* *Audio File Found* *Translating...* *Translating...* *Translation Complete* *Play Audio File?* *>Yes* *Playing Audio File.* {Hello. My name is Adam. I am a human, but you most likely have no idea what that is, do you? Humans are an intelligent carbon-based species originating from a planet named ‘Earth’. By the time you receive this message, Earth no longer exists. In fact, Humanity no longer exists. We are actually extraordinarily lucky that this recording survived long enough for you to find it, whoever you are. For as long as Humanity can recall, we have yearned to find others like us among the stars. However, we were scared. We were scared that Space was far too vast an ocean to traverse. We believed that even if we managed to reach beyond our planet, anyone else would be far too distant to ever meet. We spent far too long worrying about Space being our adversary, that we forgot to give Time a second thought. We conquered Space, spreading out to each corner of the galaxy and beyond, and we searched for any sign of life. Every star, every planetoid, every nebula, every asteroid. Nothing. No one. We were alone. We succumbed to the grim conclusion that had been festering in the back of our minds for eons. Perhaps, we were too late. As I record this message, the Universe is approximately 14 billion years old, and the period of time for new stars to be born is coming to a close. Perhaps there are other civilizations out there, not elsewhere in Space, but elsewhere in Time. We could be the last. We panicked. We searched for the tiniest clue that someone, anyone existed before us. Nothing. We were alone yet again. This time, however, a new, melancholy version of hope shines within. Even though very few new stars will be born after today, some stars will continue to shine for hundreds of billions of years more. Perhaps even a trillion. From this point of view, Humanity exists not near the end, but close to the very beginning. We are not the last, but the first. Hundreds of billions of years left for life to rise from the primordial soup of countless worlds that are yet to even take form. Hundreds of billions of years for the spark of intelligence to ignite once more. We sailed the ocean of Space, but the chasm of Time is too vast to cross. We cannot join you in the future, for we are stuck near the dawn of creation. We are the first time the universe can experience itself, and we pray that we are not the last. No civilization can persist indefinitely, and so we leave this message to represent us in an era we cannot see. We leave this message so that you know that you have siblings among the stars. We are connected, not in Space, but in Time. We ask just one thing of you. Take this message with you until the end. Add onto it so that the ones that come after you know they are not alone. Hopefully then, we may be there after all. At the end, I mean. Every one who adds to this message will be part of one project. It would be like we all truly are standing side by side. And together, hand in hand, we will see the head of the arrow of Time.


“Be a man,” said Joseph. “I'm tired of your complaints.” “But an artificial limb?” Lawrence shuddered. “How does that make me more of a man? I get along fine with one leg.” “Bullshit!” Joseph's scowl dug trenches in his forehead. “Yesterday you were practically crying in your beer. Called yourself a cripple. Don't tell me you get along fine.” “Jeez, relax.” Lawrence held up his hands. “You know how I feel about robot stuff.” “Yeah, I know how you feel about robotics, and it's stupid.” Lawrence began to see red - his pulse raced. “Hey, don't you call me -” “- stupid. Too bad, man. I've heard you crabbing about that leg of yours ever since you lost it, there's a perfectly good solution, you're too scared and stupid to take advantage of it because you've seen too many sci-fi movies or something. I've been trying to soothe you and coax you to take care of this for way too long and I've had enough. Man up. You're going to the mech center with me right now. I made us an appointment. Get in the car or I'll throw you in there.” Joseph had a strange way of expressing love. Lawrence still found himself kind of moved by it. He grabbed his crutches and headed to the driveway where Joseph's car waited. The mech center, a brand-new building five miles away, had a drive right up to the front door for people with mobility problems like Lawrence, but it still took him about four minutes to get out of the car and get his crutches under him - not a lot of time, really, but it seemed like longer than it really was to Lawrence. He found himself worrying that some other car would pull up behind Joseph's and the driver would get impatient and honk while he was trying to get out. Didn't happen, but it could have. More evidence that he needed a mech leg so he didn't have to rely on crutches. He still didn't like the idea of having a mechanical contraption with a half-intelligent sensor set gripping his knee. Finally, he stood near the door on his one foot and crutches. He moved through the door as Joseph pulled away and headed for the parking lot. A young blonde woman in a lab coat sat at the white reception desk with an earpiece tucked in her left ear. Silly, really. Obviously meant to look all clinical and sterile, and the receptionist meant to look like a medical professional - if she were a med pro, surely she'd be back in one of the examining room. “May I help you?” she said with a bright smile. “Uh, I guess so, Lawrence stammered - med pro or not, he found the hospital-looking reception area kind of intimidating. As intended, no doubt. He cleared his throat and told himself sternly to stop stuttering. “I'm here for a mech leg.” Better - strong sounding. The receptionist gestured behind her to an inner door with no windows. “Take a seat through there, please. Would you like a wheelchair?” “Don't need it, Lawrence grunted, pushing himself toward the door. The receptionist got up, hustled to the door, opened it and smiled her big smile at him. The smile actually reached her eyes. Kind of impressive, really. Lawrence smiled back - he suspected that his smile did not reach his eyes, but the receptionist looked perfectly satisfied with it. Lawrence went through the door and found two rows of plastic chairs, bolted to the floor as in all medical waiting rooms. The carpet was beige and the walls were beige. The other door stood at the opposite end of the waiting room. Also beige. Just a typical medical waiting room altogether; maybe cleaner than most. He took a seat and waited, looking down at the stump where his leg had been up to six years before. Tuberculosis of the bone - who knew that was even a thing, especially in this day and age? And especially when the lab equipment at work failed and released tubercular microbes into the air at his station? And in an age when doctors didn't even recognize bone TB anymore? Infected his thigh bone and wasn't recognized until it was much too late...and now he was supposed to trust more medical tech in the form of an artificial limb? Right. He was just about ready to forget the whole thing - actually stood up and was on his way out the door - when Joseph came through and stared at him. “Where the hell are you going?” “Home,” Lawrence muttered, not even looking at him. “Changed my mind.” “Turn around.” Lawrence saw Joseph's feet right in front of him. He could try to walk around and continue out, but Joseph would just move to block him. The man was stubborn once his mind was made up. Lawrence turned and went back to his seat. Joseph sat down next to him. Lawrence didn't bother to look over. Six minutes went by and the door opposite the waiting room entrance opened. A nurse - or a middle-aged woman in hospital whites, anyway - walked in and said “Mr. Lawrence Brown?” “He's right here,” said Joseph. Lawrence was all set to get pissed off, but thought better of it. If Joseph had kept his mouth shut, the nurse would only have had two people to choose from - there wasn't anyone else in the waiting room, so what was there to get pissed off about? “Right this way, Mr. Brown,” said the nurse, and stood aside to leave room fr Lawrence to get by into - whatever was through the door. Lawrence gripped the edge of his chair and pushed. The chair was a little low. Lawrence pushed harder. “Do you need some help, sir?” said the nurse. Lawrence ground his teeth. “No,” he grunted, and pushed again. The nurse took a few steps towards him, letting the door begin to swing shu. “Allow me...” “No!” Lawrence barked, pushed harder, got to his foot, grabbed his crutches and started to the door. The nurse hustled past him and pulled the door all the way open again. Through the door, Lawrence came to a white-painted hall with three more doors to the left and a desk and chair to the right. The nurse came around from behind him, said “Through here, pkease” and opened the third door. He hoisted himself down the hall - it would be the farthest door he had to go through, of course - and into the room the nurse showed him. That room was painted beige rather than white, at least. Inside was an examining table and a stool, where a plump man in a white coat sat facing him. “Mr. Brown,” he nodded, “please have a seat.” He gestured to the examining table, his face relaxed into a friendly enough expression. No smile, though. Professional. Lawrence turned away from the table and pushed himself onto it. The man in the lab coat tapped his knee. “Looks good,” he muttered. “I'd like to untie your pant leg please.” Lawrence felt his teeth grind together again. “I'll do it,” he said, trying not to snarl and not quite succeeding. Why did the whole world assume he was a cripple? He tugged at the knot in his pants. The slipknot opened. Lawrence rolled the leg up clear of his stump. The man in the lab coat squeezed a purplish ointment into his palm, rubbed his hands together, and smeared the ointment onto Lawrence's stump. Despite the hand-rubbing, the stuff was still freezing. “Hey!” “Sorry.” The tech didn't even look up. He took a square of black plastic out of a drawer and stuck on Lawrence's ointment-laced stump, followed by a metal cup that he got from somewhere. “What the hell is that stuff?” Lawrence asked. His irritation turned his voice into a growl. “Contact jelly,” said the tech. He didn't seem to notice Lawrence's grouchy growl. “Connects the electronics in the mech to the nerves in your leg.” He opened a cupboard and took out a device shaped like a calf and foot. “You mean I have to smear that stuff on every time I wear the mech?” This was getting better all the damn time. “We're expecting to have a mech that doesn't require contact jelly in a few months.” The tech slid the mech over Lawrence's stump and flipped a few switches. “Let's see, power, service, feedback...all green.” He backed away and actually smiled. “All right, Mr. Brown, why don't you stand up and see how it feels?” Lawrence slid off the table and onto his foot. The mech's toe touched the ground. “Go on, Mr. Brown,” said the tech. He still smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. “Put some weight on it.” Lawrence did. He felt as if...”I'm tilted, aren't I?” “A little.” The tech squatted near the mech and adjusted something with a screwdriver. Lawrence felt the leg shorten until the tilt was gone. “How's that?” “Better.” “Great.” The smile still didn't reach the tech's eyes. “Take a few steps.” Lawrence swallowed. It felt like he was going to fall. He stepped out with his real foot, then with the mech. He stayed upright. The mech embraced his stump with a strange vibration. He took a step. The mech squeezed his knee. There was a little pinch. He took another step. The mech squeezed him again. It felt almost like a massage, except for the tiny electric jolt. Another step and the electric massage strengthened. It was almost comfortable. “How is it?” said the tech. “Okay, I guess,” said Lawrence. Another step. Again, almost comfortable. “What's that electric shock?” “You'll get used to that.” The tech smiled. “Most people do.” “Yeah?” Lawrence realized he didn't want to get used to it. He thought about walking around like this for the rest of his life, having an electrically buzzing massage with every step. The bionic walker. No. He sat down, took off the mech and the sticky electrical cup thing on his stump, said “No thanks,” grabbed his crutches and headed for the door. The tech behind him looked stunned. It looked more real on him than any expression Lawrence had seen. “But, Mr. Brown...” “Thanks for your time.” Lawrence pushed the examining room door open, went down the wall, pushed open the waiting room door and ducked through it before it could shut. Not a bad job. Joseph, facing the door, stood up. “So when are you going to get your mech?” Lawrence's lungs filled and he straightened to his full height, for the first time since he lost his leg. Silly pride. “I'm not.” Joseph seemed to wilt. “What the hell...” “Yeah, I know. It just doesn't feel right.” Joseph's eyebrows knit. “But what are you...” “I know, man. I just don't want to be a half-robot, okay?” Joseph stared at him. It looked like he was about to yell. Then his face relaxed into a tiny grin. “What am I going to do with you?” Lawrence grinned back. “Damned if I know.” They went out to the car. Lawrence made the whole trip without crabbing once.


I threw a fast and hard right cross. Reverend Hayes evaded it and threw a hook that got past my guard. “Come on Susan, the more basic part of boxing is keeping your hands up.” He said. Boxing was part of my training. Ever since I helped Charles, my deafblind brother who happened to be a vampire, put a stop to Papa Brown and his zombie reign of terror, Reverend Hayes began training me to join the Protectors of Humanity. It was rigorous training that included everything from intense workouts, to boxing, to shooting lessons. It had been just six months, and already, I was at the level of a trained soldier. Doing all that while still having a full time day job made things even more difficult. “That’s enough for tonight.” He said as he started taking off his gloves. “Besides, Charles and I are going to go on a routine patrol?” “Alright, I’ll get ready.” I said. “No you’re not.” He said. “You’ve improved a lot over the past six months, but you’re still not ready for real field work. Especially not on the night of a full moon.” I was starting to get frustrated. Even after everything I’d done, I was still “not ready” for just their regular patrols. “Come on, you guys hardly ever even find anything out of the ordinary on your runs.” “Yes, but when we do, it’s dangerous.” Reverend Hayes continued. “So you’re not joining us, end of discussion.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The next day, I went to the church around 6 in the evening. My training wouldn’t start until 7 (we were doing knives that day), but I was hoping to see Charles for a little bit. I had mastered the basics of tactile sign language, and could not communicate with him. We could even play chess together on his specially made braille chess board. But that day, when I went into the church to see him, I could tell there was going be to no time to play chess. I went upstairs to his quarters, and saw him lying on his bed, covered in scratches and bruises. “MY GOD!” I shouted. “Don’t be afraid.” Reverend Hayes said. “He’ll be alright, he just needs a few more nights to heal.” “What happened?” I asked. “Susan, please stop shouting. He can sense the vibrations of your...” “What happened?” I asked, louder this time. “Last night, we had an encounter with a werewolf.” He answered. “It was in the middle of eating a woman over on Broughton Street.” “Charles tried to fight it, only to find himself quickly overpowered. I managed to scare it off with my handgun, but killing a werewolf without silver bullets is very difficult.” “It’s not impossible, but werewolves quickly heal from anything not made of silver, killing one with regular bullets almost always requires a clean shot to the brain or heart.” “THEN WHY DIDN’T YOU HAVE SILVER BULLETS!” I shouted. “Susan, I’m sorry.” He said. “You’re right, I should’ve been more prepared, especially on the night of a full moon.” I composed myself and said “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” “Your brother’s hurt, it’s natural for you to be emotional right now.” “What can we do?” “Not much we can do until the next full moon.” Reverend Hayes said. “By then, he should be healed up nicely, and we can resume our hunt. Now that Charles knows what he smells like, there’s nowhere in Savannah where the werewolf can hide.” “Good, it’ll stand no chance against the three of us.” Before Reverend Hayes could reply to that, I said “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go out with him alone on the next full moon. If he’s in any real danger, I need to be there to protect him.” “Very well.” Reverend Hayes said. “Once tomorrow’s training begins, I’ll begin training you to kill werewolves.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The next day, we met at an outdoor shooting range outside of city limits. Officially, it was closed for the night, but Reverend Hayes apparently has wealthy connections within the Protectors of Humanity, he could slide a little extra money towards the owners to keep it open just for him after regular hours. “Like I told you yesterday, werewolves heal quickly.” Reverend Hayes said. “Which makes them difficult to kill with anything other than clean shots to the brain or heart.” “That is, unless you use silver.” He said as he reached into his ammo bag and pulled out a silver bullet. “Silver is the only known substance that werewolves cannot heal from.” He explained. “Unfortunately, I only have four silver bullets in stock, and more would have to be on backorder for months. So for now, we’ll train with regular lead bullets.” He loaded his Savage M1907 semi automatic pistol and handed it to me. “See those targets out there?” He asked. “Well, yeah.” I said with a hint of sarcasm. The field was lit up, how could I not see them? “Well, not anymore.” He said. He then flipped a switch, and killed the lights. Now, the only way I could make out the targets was their vague silhouettes in the moonlight. “I’m sorry Susan, but it’s time you learned to shoot in the darkness.” He said. “When we finally catch our werewolf, we may not have street lights around to make him an easy target.” The gun held 9 rounds, and there were three targets in the firing lane. If I landed even one in three shots, I’d have hit them. But instead, I hit...zero. If there were daylight, I could’ve shot fine, but at night, I could barely shoot straight. After I fired all my shots, Reverend Hayes turned the lights back on to reveal that I landed a total of zero. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.” He said. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The only good part of our situation was that we had a full week to prepare for the next full moon. And by then, I was a lot more prepared. By then, I could fire in complete darkness. Even if it was pitch black, I could hit a target if all I could do was hear it. Reverend Hayes setup six wind chimes out in the shooting lane, and even with no light (not even the moon), I could still hit them all just by listening carefully. “Excellent.” Reverend Hayes commented. “You’re ready to hunt the werewolf with us tomorrow.” “Thanks.” I said. I was gonna go on that hunt whether he gave me permission or not, but it was nice to know I wasn’t even going to have to ask. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The next evening, we prepared. Reverend Hayes prepared two revolvers; his had four silver bullets, mine had two. But the other chambers were all loaded with regular bullets. “It’s very simple; if you have to use lead, aim for the head.” He reminded me. “Or the heart.” I replied. “Yes, but that doesn’t rhyme.” He retorted. Once the moon went full, Reverend Hayes approached Charles and communicated with him using tactile sign language. “Are...you...ready?” He said out loud for my sake. Charles then approached a window, and sniffed the air a few times. Now, I’d done a lot of reading on supernatural creatures (Reverend Hayes made me) and all the books say that vampires have the best sense of healing in the animal kingdom. And I don’t think most books account for vampires who’ve been dependent on their sense of smell their whole life. If the werewolf was still anywhere in Savannah, he could find it. It took Charles just seconds to signal to us that he had a lock on the werewolf. “Come, we may not have much time.” Reverend Hayes said as we hastened our way out of the church. “The werewolf could take another victim any moment.” We ran several blocks without stopping. A normal person might’ve been exhausted, but the two of us were in good enough shape to make the trek just fine, even while taking turns supporting Charles (in his bat form) on our arms. After just about eight minutes or so, we found the werewolf feasting on an elderly woman it just killed. When Charles smelled that we were close, he transformed back into his vampire form, and went to once again confront the wolf. The werewolf began to charge at Charles, and Reverend Hayes opened fire. I couldn’t tell how many of his shots landed, but it clearly wasn’t enough to stop it. The beast still rammed into Charles, knocking him against a wall. Charles fought back; he clawed at its face and bit into its arm, but still, the werewolf was just too strong for him. I then stepped in closer to fire, but Reverend Hayes stopped me. “At this range, you could hit Charles.” He said. But I wasn’t content to simply wait. I grabbed my knife and went to charge at the werewolf head on. “NO!” Reverend Hayes shouted, but he wasn’t going to change my mind. I wasn’t going to let my brother die. I ran up to the werewolf, and stabbed it in the back. It then dropped Charles and turned its attention to me. It swung around and wiped me in the side of my face with its paw. I then quickly pulled out my revolver and shot it twice, hitting it in the chest both times. While I clearly did a lot of damage, I didn’t quite kill it. And unfortunately, it was right in front of me. Now that the werewolf was weaker, it was a much more even fight for Charles. Charles slashed at its leg, crippling the wolf with a single blow. Then, he felt its face until he found its eyes, and gouged them out. While the wolf howled in pain, Charles went for the neck. It took just three bloody bites for him to finally kill the wolf, stopping it’s reign of terror for good. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ “That was incredibly brave of you.” Reverend Hayes said while he administered a lycanthropy shot. While it was unlikely that I got infected, as the wolf didn’t bite me, he felt that just to be safe, he should give me a shot. “I couldn’t let it kill Charles.” I said. “Very admirable of you.” the Reverend said. “I think you have a very bright future among the Protectors of Humanity.


After the accident, naturally things had to change. Janet said goodbye to Nathan, her husband of 27 years, at Barksdale Funeral Home in Milford. Janet survived but barely and most days she wished she hadn’t. They gave her therapy for her survivor’s guilt and grief as well as her injuries. She longed to return to the home she treasured, so she stopped telling them she wished she hadn’t survived. When Kacey, her social worker, brought her back home, she had no choice but to face the fallen remnants, Nathan’s scent lingering in the ruins. A smudge of his blood. Who will chop wood for the winter? Nathan proposed on Mount Washington, the mightiest of mountains. She knew when she accepted his proposal that her future was in the White Mountains. Nathan was reason enough to give up her dream of traveling the world for his dream of individualism, independence and hard work. The ranch was remote and they both knew it, in fact, that made it ideal. They could defend their property with fences and firearms. She favored the twelve gauge pump action shotgun and slept with it next to her bed. Janet had been in rehab for six months with no one caring for the ranch. She wandered around the dusty memories. She pulled out that old shotgun and cleaned it while she ate some Hormel Chili. Kasey, from social services helped her with reinstatement of utilities and cable tv as well as taking her to the Walmart for food and cleaning supplies and whatever. She looked down her nose when Janet slipped a twelve pack of Rolling Rock in the cart, but she really didn’t care what Kasey thought anymore, now that she had been released. Both Janet and Nate stood behind their live free or die lifestyle, but the day the barn collapsed with both of them in it, Janet wondered if the independence was really worth it. They had run out to the barn to try to save the animals and Janet was knocked into the barn door by a falling rafter. She pulled herself out from under the debris that had fallen from the roof, yelling Nathan’s name with every heartbeat. She crawled toward his scent and found Nathan’s head grimacing back at her. His head without his body attached. Janet went into a coma for a month. According to the doctors, it was a defense mechanism to heal the body without the stress of grief, which they believed would prolong her recovery. It took her three months to walk again and another three to walk well enough to be released. She had been getting a healthy dose of pain meds at the long term health rehab which included pain meds, muscle relaxants, antidepressants, and benzos. Now she had only Vicodin and Xanax and a combination of vitamins and nutrients. She was not supposed to drink beer, but Rolling Rock seemed innocent enough. Nathan had left a modest life insurance policy, but most of that was eaten up by the rehab costs. There was just enough that she could get by for a while. All the animals either died in the storm or were sold to pay the bills. A home health nurse visited her at the ranch three times a week for the first couple of months and then Janet convinced them it would no longer be necessary. Janet sold whatever farm tools were left and managed to buy an old but reliable Dodge Ram, which suited her just fine. After a few weeks back home, Janet started visiting Skelly’s Diner. Bill Skelly and Nathan had been pretty close friends back in the day, and Janet told him she felt closest to Nathan while having coffee in the diner like they used to do together. Bill had always been happy to give her a few minutes of his time and maybe share a slice of pecan pie. June Skelly’s pies had achieved a royal place in the hearts of the town. One balmy summer evening, Janet drank iced tea with lemon at a window table at Skelley’s and a man she hadn’t seen before walked past the window and through the door of the diner. She couldn’t help but to stare at him with his boots and his swagger. He smiled generously at her with a toothy grin and a deep dimple in each cheek. She got the kind of butterflies in her stomach that she had forgotten existed. These were true blue school girl butterflies . He seemed to know. He got a coke from the counter and, without asking permission, joined her at her window table. “Hola. I’m Miguel.” “Hola,” Janet replied, blushing at her elementary Spanish. “I’m Janet.” Janet was clearly at least twenty years Miguel’s senior but Miguel’s eyes could see nothing but her robin’s egg blue eyes and the tight body she earned with years of manual labor. “Mind if I buy you a slice of pie?” Janet said, coquettishly shifting her gaze to her glass of iced tea, with lemon. “Si,” was all he had to say. They sat and talked until June gave them their last refills and let them know she would be closing. Janet left plenty of money on the table and the two stumbled like kids out the door and onto the sidewalk, holding their sides with laughter. Janet took a tissue from her pocket and wiped a crumb from Miguel’s patron style moustache. He held her gaze tightly in his own as she wiped each whisker gently. They walked and walked and walked, through the foothills, around the center of town, up to the church on the hill, and ending up at Janet’s Dodge Ram. With tears, she pulled away in her truck and returned to the ranch in the White Mountains. She vacuumed and dusted and scrubbed until she collapsed in Nathan’s old chair and slept like she hadn’t since the night of the accident. The next morning, Janet woke up to a sharp knock at the front door. She managed to pull herself up and to the door. It was Kasey with a clipboard. “Good morning Janet. Did I wake you? It’s already nine am.” “Yes. Yes you did. I guess I was tired,” she shook the cobwebs out of her head. “I thought I was released from home health care.” “I wanted to stop by and let you know something myself. They are really cracking down on pain meds Janet. We are going to pull the vicodin and prescribe you a strong dose of ibuprofen. I think that will be sufficient at this point, don’t you?” A strong wave of nausea ripped through Janet’s gut. She was doing well because she had adequate pain relief. “But I need those pills still! I have gotta lot of pain. Oh God, my leg was almost severed completely off, I had a coma and....” “I know all that Janet. I know you have relied on them a long time. Not my call. I can offer you relaxation classes or yoga or possibly pain block injections.” “Stop talking. Please stop talking. Ok,” she thought about what this would mean to her. “When? When are you taking my lifeline?” “Today. Now. What you have left is all you will get.” Janet didn’t remember much after that. Kasey was gone. Three pills left. She took them. Then she snuggled up on the couch with a Rolling Rock, a bag of crunchy cheetos and the remote to try to forget about it all for now. Sometime in the middle of a movie about a sea monster, another knock snapped Janet out of her reverie. She managed to drift to the door, hoping it was not Kasey again. She nearly fainted when she saw that it was Miguel. “Mami! Are you ok?”he said as Janet collapsed into his arms. “Did you take something mami?” Janet tried to answer, but the words were replaced with sounds she never heard before. Manual carried her to the couch and sat with her, looking around to see if she could have overdosed. He held her in his arms and finished watching the movie about the sea monster. When Janet woke up, she was still in Miguel’s arms. She was comforted by the smell of his aftershave. It was so different than the Dial soap smell of Nathan. When she moved to get up, Miguel woke up and smiled at her so sweetly that Janet forgot how much pain she was in for just a moment. That moment was long enough to fall in love. Janet made them some coffee. Miguel liked mostly milk and sugar. Janet explained about the medications and Miguel just sipped his sweet coffee and listened, nodding from time to time so she knew he was paying attention. “I will stay here with you for a few days. Just to make sure you are alright. Maybe I can help.” “Oh I couldn’t ask you to do that. I know you must have a life of your own Miguel,” she was shaking her head no but she lied. She wanted his company more than anything she had ever wanted. Miguel cleaned up the house and cleaned up outside when Janet slept. Janet took ibuprofen but it didn’t help. Miguel drew her hot baths and then cool ones. Janet shivered hard and felt like ice even though she was beading sweat all over her body. Miguel sat with her and told her stories about his home in Mexico. He told her about ancient Mayan ruins and seaside fish taco stands. He described rain forests and warm beaches inside the baja peninsula. He described long buffets of the finest fishes and fruits and watching sunsets over the Pacific from a sand dune where they would drink wine and make love. “Miguel, your stories are keeping me alive. I wish I could travel to those places with you.” “Maybe you can mami. You are getting better every day,” he said this with pure love, but knowing she was slowly failing. “Before I met Nathan, I dreamed of traveling the world. Tell me more stories. Please Miguel.” He took some time to search the internet and tell her tales of travel to exotic places he had never been. He told tales of London and Paris, Tokyo and Budapest. They traveled the world together, but never left the ranch. “I hate to ask you this Miguel, but is it possible for you to get anything to help me with the pain?” “Mami, what you are asking is dangerous. I left Jalisco to start a new life.” “I don’t want to ask you, but, Miguel, you have no idea. The pain. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” “You think I can get you illegal drugs just because I’m Mexican?” “Can you?” “Mami. We can live a good life together. A happy life. I don’t want to be the one to keep you addicted, to put your life at risk. I can’t promise the stuff isn’t tainted. Are you sure? Are you positive?” “I’m not sure of anything. I’m sorry. Just hold me a while.” Miguel pulled her tightly against him and could feel her body hitch with tears. He could hear her teeth chatter with withdrawal. He tried to keep her warm. He kissed her hair. He could feel her suffering in his own body. “I will try mami. For you. I could go to prison for a long time for this. You know they have eyes on me just because I’m Mexican. But, I don’t want you to suffer, so I will try.” Janet cried while Miguel was gone, but she picked up her pain and went outside to face the scene of the disaster that changed her life. She seemed to be floating as she walked the empty field where the barn used to be, full of life. She looked into the White Mountains and reconnected her spirit to the heart of the earth. She had some moments where clarity intervened through the Xanax and Rolling Rock haze, but mostly, she suffered what felt like filet knives in her hip joints, electrical jolts down her legs, nails in her neck and burning running lights up and down her spine. When Miguel returned, he found her passed out on the couch. He was relieved when he saw her chest heaving up and down and he could be sure she hadn’t died. “Miguel. I thought you would never get back.” “I brought you some medicine mami,” he smiled and showed her a small syringe - the kind diabetics use for insulin. “What is it? Where did you get it?” “Trust me mami. I still know some people. I can help you.” He found a vein, flicked it with his finger, tied it off, flicked it again and easily pressed the thin needle into the vein. Janet jolted when it hit her. Then she put her head on Miguel’s shoulder and smiled. “No pain,” she whispered with her lips touching his ear. “Like magic.” Miguel continued to set Janet up with pain relief through the winter. He chopped wood and kept the place running. He also brought her groceries and Rolling Rock and whatever else she needed. He lived with her at the ranch and did all the repairs and improvements. Then, in the spring, Janet was getting very tired. “‘Miguel, I feel like time is running out,” “What do you mean? Is this another morbid moment mami?” “I feel worn out Miquel,” she stroked his thick, black hair. “After all I have done? You know I’m taking a big risk right?” “Oh Miguel. Yes. Thank you so much. You have made me feel better, loved, cared for. Please don’t think I don’t appreciate it or think it's enough. It is way beyond anything I could have imagined.” “Please be positive. You have been doing so well. We will have a beautiful spring, planting flowers and, we can get a dog, and..” “Miguel. Thank you. Thank you so much,” Janet kissed his hand and held it to her cheek. “I’m going to be a little longer this time. I need to go to Mexico. Don’t worry. I will be back before you know it.” Janet spent the time Miguel was gone in a drug induced fog, barely getting out of bed or eating. She had a bad feeling. Then one night, a knock at the door woke her. She threw herself out of bed and ran for the door, hoping like hell it was Miguel. But it wasn’t Miguel. It was two police officers. She heard them talking but couldn’t understand the words. They were saying that Miguel had been killed. They wanted to know if she knew anything. That couldn’t possibly be right. That couldn’t possibly be true. “You must have it wrong officers. Miguel just went to see his family in Mexico a few days ago. I expect him home anytime now.” “Ma’am I’m very sorry but we are not mistaken. It happened yesterday but they just notified us today. Your name was in his phone. Did he mention anything else about the trip to Mexico besides that he was visiting family?” “No. He didn’t. I’m sorry. Am I under arrest? If not, I would like to be left alone.” She could feel the shaking bubble up from deep inside her gut. After the officers left, her hands trembled so hard she had to sit on them. She had a little of the medicine Miguel left so she used it and went back to bed. She waited day after day. The medicine was gone. Miguel was gone. She was waiting for him to call and he did not. She thought they must be mistaken and he must be alive. The joke must be on them. She looked outside and, nothing meant anything to her. She drifted through the day, knowing the monkey on her back had returned. The chills were starting. The chattering teeth. The pain that ran deeper than her body was thick. She managed to get back to her bed that night. She has stopped waiting for Miguel to call. For some reason, he couldn't call, and she accepted that. She thanked God for all he had provided to her. She prayed that he was safe and well. Then she reached under the bed, and took that 12 gauge pump action shotgun she always kept there. She held it tight, like she had clung to Miguel and before that to Nathan. She held that shotgun and she waited, knowing that she would always live free or die.


Mary was grateful for the cold, white light of the full moon as the car lurched down the potholed driveway. Branches and briars from the overgrown hedges scraped the car like nails on a blackboard. The skeletal black shapes of bare trees swayed in the gusty wind, sending grotesque shadows dancing across her line of vision. She pulled up in front of the mansion, slumping in her seat with relief. Parking in front of an impressive set of stone steps which led up to the front door, she sat for a moment, eyes closed, taking deep breaths. A knock on the driver’s window startled her. It was her friend Vickie. She eased herself out of the car, staggering backwards as Vickie hurtled towards her for an embrace. “I am so glad to see you,” Vickie exclaimed, beaming. “Me too,” said Mary, laughing as she disentangled herself. “This is exciting. It’s not every day that my best friend inherits a mansion.” Vickie grinned. “Come on in.” Grabbing her overnight bag, Mary followed Vickie up the moss-covered steps into a cold, echoing entrance hall. The heavy wooden front door slammed behind them. “Sit down and I’ll get you a drink,” Vickie said, leading the way into a large gloomy sitting room and indicating an armchair near the marble fireplace. There were rickety stacks of books on almost every square inch of the floor and every surface was covered with a jumble of bric-a-brac. Mary cautiously threaded her way through the maze and plumped down in the armchair, sneezing as a cloud of dust puffed up around her. She shivered. A small fire was burning in the grate but doing little to dispel the chill. A moth-eaten stuffed fox glared at her from the corner of the room, its glass eyes glittering in the firelight. “I hope sherry’s okay,” Vickie said, handing her a glass and sitting down. “It’s all that’s left of Aunt Phyllis’s stash. I haven't had a chance to restock.” “Cheers,” said Mary, smiling appreciatively as she took a sip. “The line was so bad when you called that I could hardly make out what you were saying. I tried calling back, but I couldn’t get through.” “Cell phone reception’s almost non-existent here. Thank goodness there’s still a landline but the phone is ancient.” She pointed to a large black rotary dial phone with a thick braided cord on a side table. “This whole place is like a museum or a time capsule,” said Mary, gazing around the room at the dingy oil paintings, solid Victorian furniture and threadbare brocade curtains. “So, what’s the story?” Vickie took a gulp of sherry. “My great aunt Phyllis died a few weeks ago and left me this place.” Mary whistled. “Not bad. Were you expecting an inheritance from her?” Vickie shook her head. “No. She was my father’s aunt, but she had a falling out with my parents.” She indicated the clutter. “As you can see, she was a hoarder, and they tried to make her get rid of her stuff. She wasn’t having any of that.” “This place would be special if it was renovated,” said Mary. “I can’t wait to see it by daylight.” Vickie poured some more sherry into both their glasses and took a deep breath. “Well, you may have guessed by now that I do have an ulterior motive for inviting you. I think the house would make a really great hotel, but I’m going to have to go through all this junk one item at a time before I can even plan what to do. Aunt Phyllis didn't trust banks and I’ve already found quite a bit of money stashed here and there, so there’s no way I can just toss the whole lot out. Since antiques are your business, I need your expertise to tell me what's worth keeping.” Mary grinned. “I love a challenge. Tell me about the house.” “Grab your bag. I’ll show you to your room.” They went back to the entrance hall and up the stairs which creaked and groaned at each step, carefully stepping over more teetering piles of books and dusty boxes. The landing opened on to a picture gallery of severe looking Victorian faces peering out of tarnished gilt frames. “My ancestors,” Vickie said. “My great-great-great grandfather made his money in cotton mills and built this house a hundred odd years ago, but the local historical society people told me there have been buildings on the site for centuries, including a manor house during the English Civil War. There was a convent here before that until Henry VIII put an end to it. He tossed all the nuns out and confiscated the place.” Vickie led the way down a narrow hallway and opened the door to Mary’s room. The moonlight poured through the window, showing a shabby but elegant room with a large four-poster bed. Vickie turned on the bedside light and pulled the curtains. “I decluttered a couple of bedrooms and the bathroom and cleaned like a maniac.” Mary gazed around. “Are there any ghosts?” Vickie shook her head. “No one has said anything about the house being haunted and I haven't seen hide nor hair of one." Mary pulled a face. “What a shame. There are so many possibilities. A White Lady from the convent, a Cavalier from the Civil War, or perhaps a child from the cotton mill. Or a headless horseman coming out of the woods...” Vickie laughed. “For the last fifty years Aunt Phyllis lived like a hermit with no one except a housekeeper and the tradespeople from the village coming in. The gossip is that she was jilted at the altar and never recovered from it. Whether or not that’s true, she was a cranky old thing with a hair-trigger temper. Ghosts would probably have been afraid of her.” “Not to mention bored silly if there was no company here to scare,” said Mary. “I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind, I’m going to head for bed so we can get started bright and early tomorrow.” Vickie hugged her. “Of course. I'll show you where the bathroom is.” She led Mary further down the hallway and flung open a door, laughing. "Speaking of museums..." Mary blinked. The white tiled bathroom contained an immense claw-foot tub and a high porcelain commode with a mahogany seat. "Good grief. I'm going to feel like Queen Victoria on the throne on that thing." Vickie giggled. "I know. No showers, of course. Plenty of hot water though, and some nice bath salts. Feel free to have a nice long bath. The plumbing makes some weird noises but everything works." She hugged Mary. "Thanks again for coming. It was very daunting to face all this by myself." “That’s what friends are for,” Mary said. “Goodnight.” Mary could not remember the last time she'd had a leisurely bath. She soaked until the water began to cool. As she dried off, she was startled by a groaning noise emanating from somewhere deep in the pipes. She glanced around, heart racing, before she remembered what Vickie had said about the plumbing. "Stop it. Your imagination's running away with you," she muttered to herself as she scurried back to her room. The bedroom was cold and she wasted no time in jumping into bed. Stretching contentedly under the blankets, she soon drifted off to sleep. Next morning, she found her way down to the kitchen. A modern coffee maker was burbling on the countertop, standing out like a sore thumb next to the ancient enamel kitchen stove and ceramic sink. Vickie greeted her cheerfully. “Good coffee was a necessity,” she said with a smile. “There are fresh muffins over there.” Mary filled her mug and sat down. “How did you sleep?” Vickie said. “Like a baby,” said Mary, sipping coffee. “It was so sweet of you to check on me last night.” Vickie frowned. “Check on you? What do you mean?” “I was almost asleep when someone tucked the covers around me and whispered goodnight,” Mary said, faltering as she saw Vickie’s expression. “Wait, that wasn’t you?” The ticking of the clock on the wall reverberated in the silence as they stared at each other.


The silent emptiness that now filled the room was deafening in comparison to the meager roars of the participatory and rowdy audience had offered only an hour or so before. Oscar, Clown No. 3 and Pirate No. 4 scanned the ornately dilapidated hall, taking in that emptiness and the ruin left by the participatory and rowdy audience mentioned above. “The patrons favored bananas this evening”, Oscar mumbled to himself. Half-dressed in the silky pantaloons of an oriental pirate and still donning the elaborate clown face of the penultimate and dramatic scene that epitomizes the decaying decadence of the modern theater he let loose an unscripted Jeremiad that had both the passion and the eloquence of delivery that deserved a much finer stage than from the one it had been delivered from. The curtain had fallen; the director had cued him. Oscar, Night Janitor No. 1 began to play his role with an expertise that was sorely lacking at the Grand Off-Main Theatre. Grand Off-Main, an architectural wonder combining the façade of the Palau de la Musica and it’s interesting bulging of bricks, though, to be fair, I think the joint in Barcelona was done intentionally - this messy brickwork they paired with an interior of gaudy and sumptuous marble-esque columns, hastily designed art-deco motifs and ostentatious brass and gold fixtures everywhere that smacked of false bravado and poor taste. Garishness is the word that often came to mind by the more austere theatergoers in the last days. In plain English, it was a testimony to new money; or, at least what new money looked like in the previous century. Time had been unkind to Grand Off-Main. In its heyday it was the fashionable place to be, and everyone would promenade down to Grand Off-Main to see the some of the greats ply their trades, most for the last time. Who can forget when the stage was trod upon by that most famous, she who for reasons of libel, shall not be named, that titaness of the stage, when not forgetting not her lines, she forgot entirely which play she was performing in? As she was placed in a mechanical barber’s chair by an Americanized adaptation of Sweeney Todd, she burst into the bard’s Beatrice. As she was being toppled over backwards into a trap door the audience heard her yell out from the abyss, “He is no less than a stuffed man: but for the stuffing, well, we are all mortal”. One critic wrote that she who shall not be named, God rest her soul, “combined Shakespeare with the modern melodrama so seamlessly one forgets the centuries that gulf us from the great man himself. In her commingling of the two scripts, she captured the essence of something so transcendent, something so universal that one can’t help but...” Jack Murcell, the butcher and a patron on the night of the incident could but help and concluded the fluffy article rather laconically, “know the broad forgot which show she was in”. Jack had died only a week before young Oscar, Fruit Concessionaire No. 2 began to work at Grand Off-Main Theater. Jack, the petit bourgeois shop owner was a member of the last generation to see the Grand Off-Main rise to heights so lofty to attract grande dames of the stage, even ones on the backend of their career looking for the perfect place to kill it. Oscar, as he advanced up the ranks and came to his own backend, had witnessed the decline. Thankfully, he was still witnessing anything at all, the decay having been granted an extra, few decades to fester by the generous endowment of the Grand Off-Main’s two most famous benefactors, younger contemporaries of the long-gone Jack Murcell, Butcher No. 1. Mrs. Featherswallow, Patron No. 1, and Ms. Zouch, Patron No. 1a, were just becoming the icons of the theater when Oscar was a young boy hawking the fruit that had later been banned from the premises as the crowds took to throwing the food rather than eating it. However, as times got worse, the sign that expressly forbade the possession of produce within the confines of the theater was often the spot where a basket of rotten fruit was stored for patrons to purchase. “Necessity is the mother of all invention,” Mr. Thomas, the unfortunate last owner of the theater used to say about the basket of fruit. Yet, though both patronesses had died some fifty-seven years ago, Mrs. Featherswallow outliving Ms. Zouch by a single day, their endowments had allowed the theater to limp on for nearly six decades, four of which were all squarely in the red. As her dying wish, Mrs. Featherswallow had ordered her servants to roll her deathbed into the single box seat that hung over stage right, whereupon she died during a performance of Much Ado About Nothing. Sweeney Todd did not make an appearance that night. Death came to claim Mrs. Featherswallow at some point early in the second act. In seeing just the first act of the play, I’ll leave it to the readers to decide if she truly has the one extra visit over her great rival, who saw every show Mrs. Featherswallow did, save for the single, aforementioned act. You can easily guess what the ghost of Mrs. Featherswallow or the specter of Ms. Zouch would say about it. The enmity between the two women was as natural as it was sadly predictable. Both were of the petit bourgeois class, not a dime of old money between them. Yet, Mrs. Featherswallow, the wife of the late Henry Featherswallow was of a third generation stock of new money, whereas Ms. Zouch, the daughter of the industrialist Conrad Zouch, a poor immigrant from Bavaria, the very embodiment of the American Myth, was only of second generation stock of new money and had no designs on a false aristocracy. Proof of this three-generation hypothesis between money and the sense of entitlement it brings sadly cannot be verified. For, though the short, squat and balloon shaped women were en vogue at the time when she would have been prime for a coupling there were no suitors for Ms. Zouch. What prevented her coupling was her fiery temper. All cowered before her, save for the angular, tall and birdlike Mrs. Featherswallow, who embodied nominative determinism long before the term was concocted in some Freudian sophistry. That said, her selection of husband, and thus surname, gives credence to the school of thought that believes incidents of nominative determinism arise out of an implicit egotism in mankind. Mrs. Featherswallow and Ms. Zouch hated one another because they were so alike. Both were trailblazing women, remarkably independent in an era of entrenched chauvinism. Both were full of life, energy and vice. Both proclaimed that they hated all vice, except for the theater. That mutual love for the theater, especially the Grand Off-Main, was the only thing that prompted the two women to deign to give a semblance of approval to each other. Mrs. Featherswallow, with her futile aristocratic ambitions adopted a more naturally patrician air, sitting in her box seats above the riffraff, including the portly Ms. Zouch. She, like the blue bloods and their patrician forebears she so desperately wished to join by emulation, preferred to make use of the plebs below to participate by proxy rather than sully her own hands with the proffered produce. For some reason she had become peculiarly attached to pirates and strictly forbade any flinging of fruit in their direction. For all others she had a signal that would send the crowds beneath her into an orgiastic frenzy that would see whole cartons of refuse hurled upon the poor actors of the play being performed that evening. Conversely, Ms. Zouch, far wealthier and more influential than her rival, loved to be among the people. Her seat, across the theater on stage left was in the middle of the section that now bears her name. From that vantage point she was known to have remarkable aim and could pick off any pirate she saw fit. Her devotees would follow suit, pummeling pirates, and all others deemed worthy of such reproofs, as a rule leaving clowns unmolested. The partisanship got so bad that scenes with pirates and clowns had to be written into every play to mollify the old women and their rival mobs. The tradition of these two characters being ad-hoc attached to every production survived both women to sometimes tragic, often unintentionally ironic and universally hysterical results. As he always did, Oscar, Janitor No. 1, exited stage right and worked his way up the section beneath Mrs. Featherswallow’s unoccupied box seats and through the section that was named in honor of her and her posthumous donation. Also unintentionally ironic, each of these rows of seats had various birds perched on their backs at the ends of the rows, giving the section a more polished feel than the other two in the theater. These birds predated Mrs. Featherswallow by about twenty years having been salvaged from the fires that ravaged the east end of town. The bird motif of this section of seating was fitting in the Canary’s Cage Cabaret but looked a little out of place when placed in the Grand Off-Main in her prime. Now, one merely assumes that the other two sections of seats originally had the birds as well; assuming time had seen the other birds fall off over the years, such is the state of the theater’s decline. After finishing up sweeping her section, Oscar, Janitor No. 1 recalled a sarcastic butler role he had played a decade prior and addressed the empty box of Mrs. Featherswallow, “Fifty-four? You must have been exceptionally pleased with tonight’s performance.” He smiled and bashfully looked at the floor, rubbing his toe into the dilapidated and faded red carpet that ran between the Featherswallow section and the middle, unnamed maze of half-broken seating. “There was a pretty good pirate in this one,” he quipped to himself as much as to the absent Mrs. Featherswallow, all the while continuing to demurely dig his toe into the badly stained runner. Moving on to the center, where the worst damage by the caved-in roof had been sustained some two years prior, he found a whole bag of half-rotten bananas, each partially eaten by a drunkard who was still asleep on the ground between two rows dead center of the theater. Startled, but unphased by the common presence of some vagabond or another, Oscar prayed for the man’s soul and finished up the section before moving over into the territory of Ms. Zouch. As he had on the other side, he acknowledged the seat of a dead woman, this time face to face rather than looking up as one must do to the aristocrats among us. In the fading gas light, one could still see where the prodigious Ms. Zouch’s seat had begun to bow in the hopes of giving her frame more space to relax, lean back and hurl a tomato with terrifying speed. “Thank God it was a busted truck of bananas and not tomatoes that Mr. Thomas came across today”, muttered Oscar, Janitor No. 1, under his breath so as to not offend the deceased. There were far fewer bananas on the Zouch side of theater. Not much can be made of this because there could be a variety of reasons for a shier gathering of banana skins. For one, the bananas simply could have run out before most of the patrons arrived. That was a common occurrence these days. Oscar lamented a little when he considered this possibility. For another, the patrons on the Zouch side, always a bit poorer than those who sat on the Featherswallow side, may not have had the necessary capital to afford even rotten bananas, what with the inflation and all. Or still, they simply may have contributed more to the one hundred and thirty odd bananas he had cleaned up on the stage. Oscar, Philosopher of Natural Sciences No. 1, pondered on these and other possibilities for as long as he could before declaring it to be an unsolvable mystery. With a satisfaction and pride that is difficult to articulate, Oscar swept all the banana refuse into a pile and bagged it up. He finished his duties by mopping up and turning out the lights, taking his final bow in the empty darkness. From there he descended into the bowels of the theater, where the owner let Oscar sleep on nights where there were more than three performances or whenever he was drunk and passed out in the middle section of seating, thus incapable to shooing the old janitor out into the cold. Sadly, Oscar would only reprise his roles as Clown No. 3 and Pirate No. 4 a total of four more times. He would only reprise his role as Janitor No. 1 thrice. During the final performance of that modern obscenity that included dancing oriental pirates and bull-fighting clowns, celebrating the decadence and downfall of society in an blistering commentary on sentimentality, a severely less articulate Jeremiad than the one so eloquently given by Oscar, Janitor No. 1, prior to satisfactorily cleaning up the bananas, a fire broke out on stage, swallowing up the whole old, rickety theater and killing eleven theatergoers, including the sleeping drunk who had not moved since Oscar saw him sleeping next to the pile of partially masticated bananas. Perhaps he was dead before the fire. It is now impossible to know. It was the worst loss of life in a theater for the town since the cabaret burned some seventy years prior. Worst of all, bemoaned a local newspaper the day after the blaze, “the resplendent, avian seats of the old Canary were not saved this time”. Nearly the whole cast of that production perished in the flames as the building collapsed inwards on itself. Only two of the cast were spared from their fate. One, Marshall Betancourt, the local high school math teacher and leading character of that night’s performance, had snuck out in during one of the few scenes he was not a part of to have a cigarette. He was found looking for his lost lighter after the flames had engulfed the theater and threatened to spread into the whole block. The other was Oscar, who witnesses swore was carried out, unconscious from the flames, by two old women, one very tall and thin, the other, short and squat. Quite a spectacle did these three make! They, according to those same witnesses, sat the disoriented, but living old man down at a safe distance from the burning building and returned to the flames, arguing the whole way, presumably about who deserves the most credit for saving the poor janitor’s life. The theater and the ramshackle homes that once surrounded it have all been torn down and a soulless strip mall has been erected in their place. Schoolchildren, much like those witnesses who saw Oscar saved from the fire, tell tales of two old women, one who is tall and birdlike, one who is short and round like a bowling ball, haunting the strip mall late at night, scowling at the suburban sprawl. I doubt the veracity of these stories though, standing as I do by my chosen adjective describing the strip mall.