Alexei stood before the forest. In the distance, he heard the whispering of the engine of the truck that brought him before these woods. His air tank hung heavily on his shoulders and dug into his back. His radiation suit stuck to his sweaty skin. His mask felt choking and heavy. Alexei heard the footsteps of the soldiers that accompanied him. He took a look around and saw dark shadows moving forward in the thick fog. Alexei stepped forward into the mud. Massive dark trees stood over the group and disappeared behind the fog. Their leaves were mixed in with the mud underneath his feet. Their blanches hung bare and dead, murdered by the outrageous amounts of radiation spilling from the center of the forest. Alexei’s Geiger counter ticked away on his chest. The soldiers formed a single file and started into the forest. Alexei blindly followed in the group, clinging onto the straps of his air tank. The fog stayed close to the group, sprinting and weaving between the members of the group, casting a blur over them. Blurry outlines in the fog were hidden behind the dark and scorched bark of the trees that stood within the group. Alexei made sure not to break eye contact with the leader or any of the soldiers. They had been walking for some time now. Alexei was growing tired. His legs ached and his vision blurred. He muttered to himself, hoping that the group would hear him. He bent forward with his hands resting on his knees. He shut his eyes tight as he tried to regain his breath. The ground shifted beneath his feet, causing him to fall backwards. Alexei opened his eyes. Before him stood a massive wall of contorting metal and lead blocks. Spinning, diving, and climbing, slamming against each other, each time sending ripples across the floors Alexei now sit on. The top of the wall no longer disappeared into the fog, the fog no longer surrounded Alexei, but the wall disappeared into the dark. Into the nothingness that lies above Alexei. The wall loomed over him like a man looking into a fish tank. Alexei’s eyes drifted to the floor. Through the darkness he saw the rough outlines of lead cubes and metal. The sound of his Geiger counter broke through and entered his ears. Panic came over him as he scrambled and pushed himself away as fast as he could. The sound of his gasping filled his mask and his hands brushed past rough and cracked blocks of lead. His back slammed into something behind and caused his hands to slip. Alexei felt something strong grab onto his arm, and when he turned to look, his view was once again filled by the looming dark forest. “Sergei...” Alexei whispered at the soldier. “Come on doctor, keep moving. We’re almost there.” Sergei pulled Alexei back onto his feet before he turned and continued deeper into the forest. Alexei ran his hands over his radiation suit and checked for any damage. He suspected that there must’ve been some kind of leak, or perhaps one of his systems failed. Anything to explain what he just saw. He found no reason for his vision, other than the realization that his radiation suit might not be enough. He quickly caught back up with the group that was beginning to disappear one by one into the fog. Two hours later, Alexei was once again exhausted. He stopped and leaned against a tree to try and catch his breath again. But before he could close his eyes and take a deep breath, Sergei bumped into his shoulder, causing him to stumble forward. “We don’t have time for rest.” Alexei looked back up. Just behind the fog was a sharp shadow that didn’t resemble anything he had seen in the forest. The group seemed to be moving in that direction anyway, so Alexei decided to take a look. As he came closer, the rough outlines began to become more and more clear. He began to make out the large rectangular shape of the object. It seemed to be lying crooked. Alexei reached the object and noticed that its door had been opened. He rested his hand on the camouflage surface and leaned in. His flashlight poorly lit the inside of the helicopter. Through the darkness and the fog, he made out the shape of two feet. Alexei stepped into the cargo hold and hesitantly approached the shape. As he grew closer, the light from his flashlight cut through more and more fog until he finally reached the body. Through the cracked glass on the corpse’s gas mask, Alexei saw brown skin drawn tight over its protruding cheekbones. Its eyes had sunken into its skull. Its clothes were contorted around its half decomposed body. Alexei felt his breath catch in his throat. Alexei quickly backed out of the helicopter cargo bay and back into the fog. He stumbled back into Sergei, almost knocking himself over. Alexei looked back at Sergei only to hear him mutter, “So this is where they kept their vehicles.” His arm slowly rose and pointed into the fog. Alexei followed his finger and saw the outline of the warehouse behind several silhouettes. “Come. We need to keep moving.” Sergei began to walk after the group and Alexei quickly followed. He didn’t want to go off on his own again. Alexei had lost track of how much time had passed. They must’ve spent most of the day walking by now. He couldn’t tell. The sun was blocked out by the tall naked trees and the thick fog. The same measly amount of sunlight made it through. He couldn’t even tell which direction the sun was. He was going to ask them to stop. There was no way they expected him to continue on for so long without rest. This was outrageous! The only thing stopping Alexei from falling over asleep was the occasional spike in radiation that caused his Geiger counter to squeal. Before he could demand a rest, the group suddenly stopped. Why did they stop? Alexei focused his gaze to the front of the group. Through the dense fog, he saw five dark figures standing before the group. And there the two groups stood, motionless and silent. Alexei stepped forward and approached Sergei, who was at the front of the group. “Sergei, what’s going on?” Sergei didn’t speak. He slowly turned his head and looked at Alexei. Alexei couldn’t see his eyes through his vision, but he felt his gaze resting upon his shoulders. He felt everyone’s gaze resting upon his shoulders. “What’s going on?” he asked loudly, to the entire group. Alexei turned and faced a member of the other group, the man who stood closest to him and Sergei. He wore a different suit compared to the other four of his group. His suit had a massive visor that stretched from his head all the way down to his chest, while the other members wore plastic suits sealed at the face with gas masks. “You didn’t tell him?” the lead asked. “Tell me what?” Alexei questioned. “Do you think he would’ve come if I told him?” Sergei replied in a monotone voice. Alexei took a step back, and then another. He turned and tried to take a step, but before he could, the members of his group all raised their rifles. “Sergei, what-?” he asked as he turned back to Sergei, but his sentence snagged in his throat as he noticed Sergei’s rifle was also pointed at his head, “This isn’t what I signed up for...” Sergei motioned for Alexei to move forward. Alexei took a shaky step forward before Sergei reached out and pulled him before the man in the visor. The man stared at Alexei motionless for a moment before he stepped to the side. The sound of grinding stone filled Alexei’s ears in an instant. His hands instinctively covered his ears, but the thickness of his radiation suit stopped him from fully pressing down on his ears. The sound was deafening. He grit his teeth in pain as he slowly looked up to look behind the man. In a clearing of fog and trees, dull white sunlight shone down on a deep crater. Within the crater, held off the ground, was a mass of stone and lead, in a constant state of movement and dance. Up and down, back and forth. The mass contorted and shifted, never stopping, never resting. Pulled and manipulated by unknown forces. “What is that?” Alexei yelled over the sound. “Approach the object, Alexei.” the man said. Somehow, through the deafening orchestra of noise, the man’s voice could be heard clearly. “What?” Alexei yelled again as he turned. But he was met with no response, only the sparkling tips of their barrels. Alexei looked at the man and only saw his arm pointing at the mass. Alexei turned back and took a step forward. He felt a wave of resistance wash over his body, pushing him back and almost causing him to lose his balance. His Geiger counter screamed. He took another step forward and again, a wave of resistance. This time stronger, like a warning. He stepped forward again. And again the resistance washed over him, but the pressure didn’t leave his head. His Geiger counter now produced a single note. With every step the sound coming from the mass grew. It was shattering now. The wave was much stronger now. Alexei stumbled back. He shot a quick glance back to the group, but still he was met with the same greeting. He stepped forward again. This time he didn’t feel the push, but it felt like something pierced his forehead. His head exploded in pain. He felt his mouth open to scream, but before his breath could escape his mouth, the pain disappeared. Alexei fell to his knees as a cold sweat raised goosebumps across his body. He forced himself back onto his feet, but before he could step forward, a pain exploded from the innermost part of his head, radiating out and down his spine, dispersing throughout his body, reaching every inch of his flesh. Every part of him hurt, in the most intense pain possible. His mind went numb as he collapsed onto his hands and knees. Through the pain, the single idea, the single thought, of what he was sure to face if he turned back floated to the surface. Digging in his fingers, he forced himself forward. Somehow, the pain grew more intense. He now no longer felt the pain, all he knew was the pain. Pain. Pain. Or... Or death. Death for certain. So loud. Back there. No. Can’t go back. Forward. Forward? Sound. Pain. Pain? Maybe. He looked up and stared at the mass. Maybe. With all the strength he had left, he dug his hands and feet into the mud. He tried, he really did, but to no avail. He was stuck. Between certain death and eternal pain. He contemplated turning back. Anything, *anything*, was better than this. He had to turn back. He felt his body relax, despite the pain. It was deafening... A single thought rose in his head, so alien and clumsy, so random. A single thought, one word, one command. *Stay* He didn’t know why, but he listened. He wasn’t aware of his choice, nor his thought process, only aware of his final decision. And so, he stayed, his muscles tensed. The pain reached a pinnacle. Alexei passed out. His face mask pressed against the cold mud. And all fell silent. He opened his eyes. He was now standing. His mask was clean. His suit felt new. The stickiness and humidity was gone. His air tank felt like. His Geiger counter was silent. He looked forward and noticed the mass, quiet and unmoving. Calm. Settled. He stared at it, felt it staring back. And both stared, an equal mix of curiosity and fear between the two. Alexei slowly raised his arm forward. He was so close to touching its surface. Before he touched its cold surface, the world changed. The mass returned to its violent state. Alexei jumped back in fear. Above the sound of the grinding blocks came a screaming, a screaming so violent and feral, so desperate. Above the mass, the man with the visor could be seen, paddling and struggling within the mass. He pushed and shoved, and begged. He screamed at Alexei. He screamed at him to help, to save him, to take away his pain, and, finally, to kill him. Alexei stood motionless, shock overcame him. He was frozen. Blood pooled at the feet of the mass. Blood spewed forth from every opening. The sound of tearing flesh and crushing bone echoed throughout the impossible space. One final scream, one final fight. Alexei awoke and pushed himself off the mud. He stood up, adrenaline pumping, and tore off his mud covered gas mask. He took in a full breath in what felt like days of strangulation. Before him, in a neat half circle, were the bodies of the men, all with their blood dripping down and into the crater. All artificial in appearance. The mass was gone. The fog was gone. The sunlight now dominated the space. And above all else, it was quiet. Silent. Finally. Silent.


It was a long, cold hike in the snow, but I had finally reached the perfect position on the mountainside. I took the stool, easel, paper, and charcoal from my pack and set up my little portable workshop. Through my gear, I could tell it was freezing. Thankfully, for my comfort and for my work, the air was still this morning. I sketched the outline of the bell tower first - such a quaint vision, a church in the middle of town with a bell rising above all else. It was the first thing to catch my eye in the town below and the perfect centerpiece for my work. I loved creating new art, and was appreciative that I was allowed to do it so consistently. My job was difficult, so it was essential to find joy in small things such as that. Plus, for the same reason it was difficult, I was able to look upon each of my landscapes in a way no other artist had before. Certainly in a way I never had, at least. Not when I really should have done so. That's the thing about hindsight, I suppose. I'd resolved to never make that mistake again, and it gave me a unique view of each new scene. I had to convey information through my work that people would never be able to see for themselves. It was a fantastic responsibility, and I did not take it lightly. Once I had finished with the basic structure of the homes and small shops, I made sure to include the flora around the town so they wouldn't be forgotten. Whether preserved or planted, they existed today because somebody cared, and that deserved to be noticed. As I outlined an evergreen tree on the outskirts of town, I recalled a time celebrating Christmas with my family. We decorated a tree in our backyard as the sun went down. When we were finished, the kids played in the snow as my wife and I sat by the firepit exchanging small gifts for one another. Christmas wasn't 'til morning, but we had a Christmas Eve gift tradition just between us. She got me a pair of silly holiday socks; a simple gift, but the socks she bought me made me smile all through the year, every morning as I got dressed. This time, a snowman, half-melted with its head plopped on the ground beside it as the sun shone above it; not unlike the one my kids were making now, only the head in the snow was newly-crafted and nearly ready to be placed atop its lopsided body. My daughter finished packing the snow together while my son added extra arms to the torso. Those kids were my world. I was lucky enough to realize it in the moment, each time I looked at them. My wife opened her gift and smiled through tears as she realised two things simultaneously: First, it was exactly what she wanted, and second, it was far more expensive than a pair of socks. This was a game we played every year. It was never my intention to show her up as she playfully claimed, and truthfully I never saw it that way; my favorite gift was seeing how happy she could be because of something I had done. Back on the mountain, my heart ached, longing for my family. It had been too long since I could hold them; longer than any person should have to go without such joy, but I was certainly not the only one these days. I was forced to wonder about the families in the town below, constantly making new memories that they didn't yet realize were all-too-fleeting. I checked my watch: Nearly 0300 hours. Not much time left. I was grateful to think these people had at least gotten to enjoy Christmas the day before. Again, small joys. But I had to work quickly, now. I was careful not to miss anything. I added the finishing touches of moonlight glistening on the snow-capped rooftops and the small bit reflecting off the bell in the tower. It was important that I capture every detail. After all, I was memorializing the town. I signaled to the company that I was finished. I gingerly placed the drawing into my folder to keep it safe; it was the most precious thing in the world right now. Until the next one, anyway. I folded my stool and easel, packed them away with my charcoal as the planes began to sound in the distance. I waited in the cold, silent morning watching the town. They deserved that much, though they couldn't possibly realise why. I felt a tear burn my cheek in the winter air and quickly wiped it away. The planes flew overhead. The bombs dropped. And just like that, like so many before, the entire town lived on only in my drawing.


I met an old man dying on a train. When you hear something like that, you prepare yourself for the inevitable moral conclusion that will come at the end of the story. You settle in to your comfortable chair, and you begin to wait patiently for the praiseworthy denouement. Well, let’s hear some truth. I met an old man dying on a train. He didn’t say much of anything when I sat down across from him. Maybe he made an odd noise that old people are prone to make, I honestly wasn’t paying much attention. The room was hot and stuffy - and normally I’m alright with a little bit of heat and humidity - but for once - I noticed. I noticed the way his breathing was labored, shallow on the inhale and weezy on the exhale. I noticed the way sweat collected around the sides of his neck, tracing beady lines down his deathly pale, wrinkly, blotched skin. I noticed when he closed his eyes, he dreamed of being young again. How when he closed his eyes, our roles were reversed and he was staring at me in my debilitated condition, silently judging my existence as a matter of my condition. The train came to a screeching halt. I would say I smelled burning rubber - but that’s impossible because trains don’t work like that. I smelled my own mortality, right then, I think. When I walked away, I didn't look behind me, not for *one* second.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (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’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Image: ** *Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - Use at least **three** of the following words: wilted, starstruck, bucket, gastly, whirlwind, Corpse Lily.* This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.). The bonus constraint is not required.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, 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. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that 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. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***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) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings ###Two Weeks Ago: The day began like any other - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite   - - Submitted by u/gurgilewis   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 *** ###This Past Week: Destiny was calling - - Submitted by u/rainbow\-\-penguin   - - Submitted by u/AliciaWrites   - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


July 2019 ‘So you had just started telling me Stan, whatever happened to Aunt Ada? She seemed so fit for 93.’ ‘She was. Good strong bones with plenty of meat still on them. You know how old people often get really skinny. Lose all muscle tone. But not Ada. She went to Pilates twice a week, right up until she was almost ninety. And she played tennis at Wimbledon when she was in her twenties. Hockey too. Taught PE at the local convent school. Received an MBE for services to sport after she retired.’ ‘Wow, she sounds like a remarkable lady,’ Jean was ramming another slice of roast meat and horseradish into her mouth and chewing appreciatively. ‘Didn’t she leave her body to medical science or something?’ she continued. ‘Something like that.’ replied Stan, ‘Something like that. Pass the potatoes won’t you my dearest.’ January 2015 ‘I don’t want to be cremated after I die,’ said Aunt Ada. ‘Well we won’t do it beforehand,’ laughed Stan. ‘How’s your crackling by the way? Is it crispy enough?’ ‘Mmmm. Delicious. And the apple sauce is to die for. Are the Bramleys from old Mr Johnson’s garden.’ ‘All home grown my dear, all home grown.’ ‘What happened to him, that Mr Johnson? Didn’t he die quite recently?’ ‘Funnily enough, it was only a couple of weeks ago,’ replied Stan. ‘Went quick. Heart just stopped. Shame, because he was in really good condition for 78. Played five-a-side football up until his sixties and coached the youngsters from the deprived areas.’ ‘In really good condition...you make him sound like a prize heifer Stan.’ ‘It’s the same thing really. And he didn’t want to be cremated either.’ June 2019 ‘It’s good to know I’m helping the environment. No grave to dig and tend and take up room in the cemetery. No smoke to pollute the atmosphere.’ Ada was in bed at home, no hospital for a hardy old duck like her. Nothing like dying at home in your own space. It had always been her wish. It didn’t take long. She went to sleep to the sounds of Classic FM and didn’t wake up the next morning. Stan was with her of course. She’d never married or had any children. He was her only remaining relative. And all her friends had passed long ago, Madge who she’d known since they were children at 77, Edith from the corner shop at 81. She had even outlived Maud who was a right old dragon in her time. Used to be the caller at the Bingo. Clickety click, sixty six. Eighty eight, two fat ladies. They said it was her bad temper that kept her going till she was almost 90. She said it was because she was one of the two fat ladies. But even she couldn’t match Ada’s rude health and sharp wit. January 2015 ‘I was just thinking, Ada. If you don’t want to be cremated, have you thought about what you’d like done with your body? Afterwards, I mean.’ ‘You can stick me in a bin liner and chuck me in the dumpster for all I care. I won’t be here to see it will I?’ ‘That wouldn’t be very good for the environment would it and the bin men would never get over the shock. All those limbs sticking out of the bag. It would be like a horror film or one of those crime thrillers. You know when they come to collect the rubbish and there’s a hand poking out with a digit missing.’ ‘Stan, you are awful. I think that’s why we get on so well.’ ‘There are other options of course.’ ‘I’m not being buried at sea, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she continued. ‘Always hated the water. That’s why I never learnt how to swim.’ ‘You won’t be swimming, Ada my dear. Not even floating. But I wasn’t thinking of anything like that. You’re far too valuable to be fish food. Let me explain my after-death plan. I think it might take off and become popular if people could just stop being so squeamish.’ July 2019 ‘Stan.’ ‘Yes Jean my sweet.’ ‘I was just wondering whether this is beef or lamb. It has an unusual taste, lighter somehow.’ ‘It’s neither actually. It’s Aunt Ada.’ ‘Ha ha Stan. You do make me laugh. You have such a warped sense of humour.’ ‘I’m not joking Jean. It really is Aunt Ada. She and I made an agreement a few years ago. She didn’t want to be cremated...’ ‘Yes but....’ ‘You see, you were enjoying it before I told you. We were having such a lovely dinner. Now you’ve gone and spoiled it. It’s good meat, human. Bit like veal or chicken, especially if the person lived a healthy life. No smoking or too much alcohol. Stay out of the sun at noon times. Moisturise every day. Plenty of flesh but not too much fat. There’s loads more in the freezer.’ ‘Please tell me you’re joking. I’m going to be sick, Stan. I think there’s something stuck in my throat...’ ‘Don’t be like that Jean. At least finish the roast potatoes and the cauliflower cheese. It’s your favourite.’ August 2019 ‘So you had just started telling me Stan, whatever happened to Jean? I gather she passed away quite recently.’ ‘Very sad it was, Margaret. We were going to be married next year.’ Stan was chewing the meat off a lengthy femur. ‘Quite sudden actually. She choked on a metatarsal. It was such a lovely dinner we were having. Roast with the full works. Yorkshire pudding, bread sauce, spiced parsnips and my special gravy. And cauliflower cheese of course. It was her favourite.’ ‘Oh Stan. I love cauliflower cheese, but it’s the meat part I like best. This is like veal. Very tender,’ said Margaret. ‘Funny you should say that my dear. I like the meat best too. And this is very special. Cooked with love as they say. And there’s plenty more in the freezer.’


"We can't afford that." Despite the promises, she heard the sentence again, and to amplify the injury it did anyway, she heard it right in front of the salesman, who had patiently shown them the twenty three thousand dollar leather couch. She thought she saw in the eyes of the salesman, the worst, the most humiliating and insulting of all emotions, pity. Though it was just a flash and though after all, Camilla could still somewhat rely on being much wealthier than this neat and inconspicuous man, it nonetheless ruined her day and her mood. Being pitied by an ordinary. Wordless she turned around, stuck her nose up in the air and left, stomping her heels on the marble floor. William looked after her then made a brief, explanatory gesture in the salesman's direction, whose friendly manner, William thought, couldn't hide a sort of commiseration, which half amused and half angered him. Though Camilla's temper at times would run wild and ruin an afternoon, William was certain that his wife possessed countless times the beauty and ability for societal grace than whomever the man in front of him shared a marital bed with. "Shall we reserve the couch for you, in case you reconsider?" the salesman asked. "Yeah, do that." William answered. "It is reserved for two weeks." "Thanks." said William, knowing that in two weeks, nothing about his financial situation would have changed and they would never come back to buy the couch. And then when money was coming in, and who knew when that would be, for the disgrace, they would shun this expensive and exclusive furniture store. So William was aware, he would never see the salesman again and thus was even less anxious than before to display any excess courtesy. William Stephenson was a man who couldn't help but reflect his inner workings onto the world around him. Three prosperous years of ascent in the banking sector had left his environment under the impression to be dealing with a man of constant, mellow satisfaction. The last year, where this ascent had come to an involuntary halt had left William many days agitated and short fused. Where there had been good manners and an unobtrusive interest in the people he encountered, were now a more or less concealed indifference and a certain uncivilness. The latter was inherited from his late grandfather, who had become known, in the elderly days, for an offensive and intended lack of good breeding, which had seemed like an attempt to alienate the most amount of people possible before his death and William, until this day, suspected the old man of having had a thievish joy in it. William turned around and left and gave no response to the "Good day, sir." The salesman thought nothing in particular of William and Camilla. He was too much of a professional and dealt with too many moody snobs, to do that, or to take any of their behaviour personally. He was rearranging the cushions of the couch with stoic, butler-like neatness when the entrance door shut behind William. He found Camilla in the car, browsing through a clothes catalog and he, in a burst of impatience yanked it out of her hand and only a piece of the page she had been holding remained there. "Asshole." she muttered and crossed her arms and looked out of the window. She carelessly dropped the snippet from her hand to the floor and William turned to her and said "Pick that up." "What?" she returned indignantly, in theatrical disbelief. "Pick it up." he repeated. "Pick it up or you walk home but you won't be littering my goddamn car." he wasn't in the mood to fight and wanted to make a definite, indisputable point. But Camilla, when she was defiant, always made it her mission to show William how little she took him seriously. She just chuckled, took the snippet up, ripped it in half, and dropped both pieces to the floor again. William got out of the car and was at her door before she could lock it from the inside. He yanked it open and she gave a shriek when he seized her arm. He began pulling and her shriek enlarged to a hysterical scream which attracted attention all around and even from the little, neat, butler of a salesman inside the furniture store, who was as far as a monk removed from any nosiness or gossip. Foaming, William let go of her arm and shut the door and cast a challenging glance around. But as this glance was reflected in one or two witnessing faces of men, and he was in no more of a mood to fight with them than with his wife, he got back into the car and drove off and for a while they both said nothing. Their drive home, from downtown back into the upper suburbs, was forty minutes. Camilla switched on the radio and William switched it off again directly. She rolled the window down and he rolled it up again. And condescendingly, trying everything to sound bored by these antics, she said "Really? How old are you William?" and as he didn't respond she added, more to herself, "That might be illegal." "You know what's illegal?" he returned "Embarrassing everybody who is with you by acting like a damn spoiled child." "Oh, Willy..." she said sarcastically but as he stopped the car, almost making it an emergency stop and drove on to the parking lane, she sat up straight, aware to have crossed the line. “Get out.” he said. “No.” Camilla said. “You get out of the car, now.” “I am sorry, William, can we please just go home?” “Get out.” “You can’t throw me out. Please. Just let us go home and then we order food and tonight all will be forgotten and tomorrow we will laugh about our silliness.” William pulled the key out of the ignition, opened his door and stepped outside. It was a beautiful day. The snowwhite clouds painted manifold shapes on a richly blue canvas. He took a deep breath and realized at once how tired he was and how much in need of tranquility. He looked to the left and right and then crossed the street, where on the other side he spotted a small book store. He saw himself now, finding momentary peace between the bookshelves, maybe opening one or two and reading a few pages, smelling the young paper and new ink. Way too long he hadn’t found the time to read because his weekends were usually spent now on brunches and then dinners with Camilla’s friends or boring, exhausting and meaningless shopping sprees. Not for the first time, he noticed how much Camilla’s shallow interests were mercilessly consuming his time and energy. He had, for this briefest interval, in his joyful expectancy of the little world of peace, almost forgotten his car behind him, in which Camilla was still sitting. The moment he laid his palm on the book store’s door handle, Camilla’s voice, screaming after him, served as a painful reminder. “William!” she screamed. But he overcame the moment of hesitation and despite her protest, entered and pulled the door shut and was embraced by the pleasant silence he had anticipated. The place was like a mellow dream, like every book store, a secluded, little, parallel world co existing, in a state of perfect harmony, next to all the rush and the din. As a child and a youth, William had done nothing rather than reading and had there been a career path, making him an underpaid man whose only purpose was reading books, he would have taken it without hesitation. But then there had been college and then some years later, half through connections and half through headless dedication, he had ended up in banking. There he forfeited, each day, mirth and mind, occupied solely with the soulless shifting of money and it weighed on him heavier than he would have admitted. He was grandly paid but they had promised him a promotion, a huge leap for his career a while back and in anticipation of that, he had begun living above his income, significantly propelled by Camilla and her longing for luxury and the upper class. Then they had withdrawn their offer and postponed William’s promotion until an unknown point in time. They were contractually obligated to give him the promotion sooner or later but they could and would do it at their discretion. Something that William was content with but also something, a narrow mind as Camilla’s, clouded by status conscious egotism wasn’t able to grasp. A fairly young woman, who had, in her upbringing, never experienced a delay in the gratification of her wishes, she had grown up to be under the constant impression, that the world’s purpose was her own entertainment. It became harder and harder for William to conceal his wife’s raging character flaws from his own scrutiny and the day where he finally had to acknowledge and face them approached inexorably. He traversed the rows of books with long, slow strides and the carpet absorbed every noise his steps would have made. He was looking for the section with english classics and soon found it and stood before it. It was like he was revisiting a familiar place of his childhood and the memories overwhelmed his comprehension. There they were, his havens, the sites of his childhood fancy, neatly placed, shoulder to shoulder, ready to invite and to welcome and supply every seeking soul with all of life’s endless possibilities. He picked out one of the books, some Fitzgerald, and couldn’t help but feel that the story of his own life was sometimes inspired by a recent reading of this virtuoso. He picked another one, a Dickens book and was transported back to his grandpa’s fireside, the most sheltered place of his childhood where he had devoured the stories of Copperfield and Pip. As so often, when the greatest pleasure, and even passion, invokes the wildest fancy, there came ideas into William’s head as to never go back. Never go back to Camilla or banking. For a moment he was sure he could find a job as a librarian or open his own book store, easily. For a moment he was sure, the only thing separating him from this dream of a life, forever surrounded by books, was a bit of courage that he yet needed to muster. For this brief interval of wandering thoughts, all of the economic sacrifice that came with a life as this, seemed negligible, even thinking of it appeared like a petty by-product of a spoiled and weakened mind. He took the two books he had opened, and a few others, with him to the counter. There he waited a moment before a young woman of maybe twenty two came out of the back room. William had inhibitions to start a conversation not related to their business transaction, as one usually has around strangers. But the vehemence of his inner workings, simply rendered it inevitable. And when he had paid, after the usual, small-talking friendliness, he said “Could I ask you another question?” “Sure.” the young woman replied. “Has it always been your dream to work in a bookstore?” At this moment, so entirely taken up by his imaginations, the only possible reason, in his mind, for anybody, to work in a bookstore, or own one, was a higher calling, a purpose and a life’s passion for literature and the written word. The young woman however looked at him in amused disbelief as to say ‘Are you kidding me?’ but as he didn’t waver and in earnest waited for a reply, she said “Oh, no. my dream?” she repeated the word as if she had to make sure that she had understood it correctly. “How much money do you think I make?” William was taken aback and found the question endlessly chastening. It was like a rude awakening from his romantic fantasizing. He was at once brought back to reality. A reality in which money was important. In which you needed to do things like banking in order to make it. And one in which not every bookstore owner or employee was part of a detached society which held the key to happiness without it. The young woman repeated the question but William was sullen now and unwilling to answer it. The world waiting for him outside of the bookstore had materialized again, returning from its brief repression, and him living in it, without a quick way for escape, was inevitable. It was a world in which Camilla would nag him about a new couch and about dinner with her boring, empty friends, in the course of which, William knew, he would become more boring and more empty himself because you are guilty by association when it comes to shallow stupidity. “Goodbye.” William said. “The answer is not a lot.” said the young woman, who was now, judging by William’s rudeness, under the impression that his question about her dream had been a mocking, ironic one. William was in no mood to further engage with her. Deep down, he did not like himself when he was unfriendly but there were moments in which he couldn’t help himself.


I hear faint footsteps heading towards my door. I listen for a moment. Loud at the beginning of the step and quiet as the rest of the foot comes down. They’re walking with the ball of their feet, not wearing heels though you can’t hear the click at the end. Only Margret, Shannon, and Alexa walk like that, but Alexa wear’s heels. A faint tick sounds through the office, like a bone popping. Margaret has joint issues. From what I’ve heard and researched, Joint Hypermobility, born with it. Just to be sure I listen for the jingling of her bracelets. That’s when I hear it, just over the sound of conversation outside my office. I already know what she’s here for, so I grab the witness statement from my drawer and set it at the edge of my desk closest to the door. I hear the distinct creak of my office door opening. Insead of looking up and pretending I didn’t know it was her, I simply point quickly and get back to typing. Margaret is my assistant. She’s in her early 20’s and hasn’t mastered business casual attire yet. She just wears black and white. It makes her blend in with everyone else, she has no personality in her clothes. Makes her unremarkable and ordinary. No professional will remember her. She has dark hair and a kind face. That won’t work for her here the way it works in bars though. She wants to be an attorney one day, she starts law school in August. She’ll get eaten alive in there if I don’t thicken her skin a bit. “Hurry up.” Until I said something she was just standing and staring at me. Waiting for me to greet her I suppose. Maybe she thinks I didn’t know she was there and was just pointing at the exact thing she needs for no reason. She’s not going to get a greeting though. She saw me point, she knows I heard her open the door. She needs to read social cues faster. That's the only way to read a witness and know which buttons to push for the answers you want. “Now.” I say sternly, she’s walking too slow. You have to be quick, efficient. Always look like you are doing something important even if you’re just playing snake on your laptop. “Make sure all witness statements and transcripts from the Buckly trial are ready by Monday morning. I’ll need them Tuesday for my meeting with the partners.” I say, all without looking up at her. “Of course Ms. Conley.” She hurries out of the room and shuts the door. I hear her exhale and mutter something under her breath. We have thin walls. I assume it has something to do with the fact that it’s 3:30 on Friday and the transcripts are at the courthouse. The courthouse that is backed up all day and isn’t open on the weekends. A rather impossible task, but she has two options. She’ll either somehow get the transcripts over the weekend, or she won’t and come to me saying the soonest she can get them is noon on Monday. If it’s the latter and she comes to me scared and asks to get them later, I’ll scold her then tell her to hurry along. If she comes to me confident saying that she is working as quickly as possible and she’ll get them to me as soon as she can, I’ll feign neutral acceptance. The meeting with the partners actually isn’t until Wednesday anyways. I know I’m sending her on a goose chase, but she’ll need friends in the court house. Bailiffs, judges, bookkeepers. She needs anyone and everyone she can get. I sit typing on my computer until I finish my opening statement and plan my cross examinations for the trial I have on Monday afternoon. After completing those and saving them to my shared drive, that my computer at work and laptop both have access to, I look up from my monitor. That is when I see my office is dark except for the light radiating off of my monitor, and my phone sitting silently and happily on my desk. I look towards my floor to ceiling windows and all I’m met with is a dark cityscape, the moon and clouds but no stars. You can’t see stars very well here, and most of the time, not at all. I tap the screen on my phone and check for new notifications. None, as per usual. I look around my office slightly in a daze, I normally register time and how long I’ve been here while I’m working. There is a cream colored loveseat by the windows, topped with a throw blanket with different shades of blue and purple, and throw pillows in the same colors. In front of me I stare at the frames on my wall, bachelor's degree in philosophy, law degree, and letter I got saying I passed the bar on my first try. That was just as impossible as Margret getting those transcripts to me by Monday morning. Those three are all in matching frames, equal lengths apart, evenly placed across the wall. I’m looking at them from behind on one side of my L-shaped desk. The other side is sitting to my right. In reality I took two desks and put them next to each other to imitate an L-shape. I’m picky and couldn’t find one I liked, so I made one myself. Behind me are bookshelves full of books, plants, nick nacks, vases, miniature busts of my favorite Greek goddesses. No picture frames though. There are none of those in here. No pictures on my desk, nor on my walls. I don’t even have a cute picture as my computer screen saver. It’s just an inspirational quote, that same one is set as my phone wallpaper too. I hear a chime. Excitedly, I picked up my phone, looking for the icon of one of my dating apps. Maybe Instagram or Snapchat. Hell, I'll settle for a Facebook message at this point. Instead I’m met with a notification telling me if I scan my app at Starbucks tomorrow I’ll get double stars. At least I know what I’ll be doing in the morning. I pack up quickly, stuffing my laptop into my tote bag, followed by my phone, empty tupperware, and case files to look over for the third time. Walking out of my office I grab my coat and reusable coffee cup. It’s empty now but I don’t like leaving things at the office over the weekend. I see Fred at the end of the hall as I walk out. Fred is one of our custodians, I see him almost every night. “Hey there little lady. You’re leaving even later than usual.” He checks his watch as I sigh dramatically and look him in the eye. He reminds me of a grandfather, not mine though. I don’t even know mine. “Yeah, I got distracted again. I didn't even realize it was already 10:30 until I looked up and saw I was shrouded in darkness” We both laugh. I turn to walk past him and smile. I don’t get to smile here often, being “The Shark” of the office means being nice isn’t in my wheelhouse. But it really is. Appearing mean and chaste works better in this business though. As I’m walking past him, my smile fades but he says “Don’t let me see you over the weekend. Take a break. Go on a date or something. You deserve a vacation from this place.” Just as quickly as it left, my smile returns again and I turn back. “How do you know I’m not already in a relationship?” I ask jokingly with the raise of my eyebrow. “Because there is no ring on your finger.” He mirrors my expression back at me and taps his left ring finger while holding it up to me. “I could have a boyfriend or a girlfriend.” I lower my eyebrow and cross my arms. “You could but I don’t think so because you are here all, waking hours of the day. If you’re in a relationship with anything it’s that desk of yours.” I lower my arms and giggle. “That’s a solid point you got there. I’ll call the detective's office and let them know they need you on staff.” He laughs and I see the crows feet near his eyes deepen. “I’m perfectly happy where I am.” He retorts. I give him the most genuine smile I have. “Have a good night Fred.” I throw over my shoulder as I turn towards the elevators. “You too Constance” I leave the highrise made of glass and steal. All sharp lines and polished to perfection. I’m walking along the road and all I hear is cars zooming by and the girl’s heels clicking on the sidewalk. I soon find myself walking into Flax. It's a relatively small business where I buy all of my pens, highlighters, legal pads. Just about everything I need to be able to do my job well. “What’s up boss lady” I hear from the counter on my right. “Why are you back so soon? I thought you just picked up some of my good pens the other day” Alyssa says as I redirect my walk to the counter. “I did, highlighters this time.” I look at her and smile. Alyssa is about my age. She’s married to Vanessa and has a daughter about two years old now. I remember when I walked in one day and she was blown up like a balloon. You could feel the joy radiating off of her. She hands me a photo, not a photo on her phone, a physical photo she printed out. Even though this is the twenty-first century and everyone has phones that are capable of containing photos, she still prints them out, so when she shows them to her regulars, they get to hold it in their hands. Alyssa is an old soul, she even has vinyls playing on a record player behind the counter instead of playing the radio through the overhead speakers. I absolutely love it. I take the photo and look down at Emery, their daughter. I start my walk towards the highlighters while staring at her chubby cheeks and pigtails while she eats ice cream. “God she seems so big. I feel like you were just pregnant.” I say over my shoulder towards the counter while in front of the selection of highlighters. No one else is here this late, so we continue our conversation by yelling over the store. “You’re telling me. My body hasn’t recovered yet. I still pee every time I laugh.” Alyssa returns. That sends me into a fit of giggles while I’m reaching for my regular pack of highlighters. “I’m serious.” she says in a high pitched voice “Vanessa has been obsessed with dad jokes lately. I’ve been peeing my pants a lot.” She continues. That makes my fit of giggles turn into full on laughter. Laughing so hard I have to lean over and clutch my stomach to keep from falling on the ground. When I catch my breath I look over at her and wipe a tear. “The fact that you laugh that hard at dad jokes is embarrassing.” I still haven't completely stopped laughing so I choked the words out between breaths. “It’s not the jokes, it's her laughing at her own jokes for like five whole minutes every time. The jokes are so bad, not even Emery laughs.” That makes the smile on my face turn into laughter again. I’m stuck laughing to myself, envisioning it and repeating her sentence back to myself in a high pitched and out of breath voice. Once I finally regain the ability to breathe, I walk towards the counter again. “You’re kidding. She does not.” I say incredulously while setting the highlighters and picture on the counter. “Oh but she does. I’ll have to film it and show it to you next time you come in.” She scans the highlighters and takes my cash. I give her exact change as always. I do however stuff a 20 in the tip jar. She sees it and tries to hand it back to me but I start running out the door faster than she can get out from behind the counter. “Oops sorry, I’ve got a very important call from my boss. Gotta go.” I yell over my shoulder as I round the corner out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk. I’m still giggling to myself a bit when I hear “It’s like 11 o’clock you lair.” My apartment is down the street so I just walk. There is no point in spending money on a taxi when my feet can hurt just a little bit more and I can enjoy the sky. I always liked night better than day too. Being left alone but knowing someone is still there with you. Sleeping in separate rooms, but if you need them you could call them and they’ll come. Even the dark is comforting, the stars in the sky, all the animals outside, asleep. It’s not quite the same here though. Even the night kind of feels like day. It’s like no one sleeps in LA. When I get upstairs I’m met with a cold, dark condo. The smell of the candle I lit last night and coffee I made this morning still linger in the air. I drop my bag on the coffee table in front of my couch and collapse onto the deep green fabric. I sit and stare at my ceiling for a while. I have a ceiling medallion surrounding the ceiling light so I follow the pattern with my eyes for a while. I don't know how long I lay there thinking about home, but I do know that home isn’t really a place for me. I know it’s like that for some people, and for them it's a person, a loved one of some kind. For me though, it’s a feeling. Comfort I think, I don’t get to feel it often so I think of the few times I do have it. That is home for me. My only interruption is from the bubbling of my stomach, reminding me I haven't eaten since lunch. I haul myself up, slip off my heels, take off my coat and throw them both at a cream colored armchair. I have a thing for cream furniture. I grab my phone out of my bag and hit play on an audio book I’ve been listening to. I couldn’t tell you the characters names or what the book is even about but I prefer hearing people talking than the silence of my empty condo. I reach into the freezer and grab a frozen dinner, I was never really taught to cook. The best I can do is rice and maybe some cookies if I devote my entire day to it. After pouring a glass of unsweetened tea I hear the beep of my microwave telling me my meal for the night is ready. I just stand and eat at the counter, I can't be bothered to move to the dining table I have. It’s big enough for 6, but there is normally only 1 sitting at it. Once I’m done with my mediocre food, I put on a robe and a face mask and watch one of my favorite movies. I turn all the lights off and sit in the dark like I used to do when I was a teenager. Only this time I have wine. I sit and stare at Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey fall madly in love with each other, surrounded by friends and family and coworkers. I check my phone again. It’s 1:47, my screen saver is telling me it gets better so I should smile, I still get double stars at Starbucks, but nothing new. This is my life. Every day of it.


It was a bright, dry Saturday morning in the town of Conistone. Too hot to fight the burning sun by hiding indoors, so it was only natural that my family decided to visit the nearby beach. So, we hopped in the car and off we went, driving carelessly on the bumpy roads. As we were driving, I began to think about all the things I left behind, I had plenty to do at home, the oven needed to be fixed since it was broken, a part of the wooden fence has shattered and needs replacing, but I still went, ignoring everything and being slightly stressed out. When we got there little Timmy jumped out of the car with joy, undressing as he ran, his mother went after him and told him to wait for us, the slower ones. When I was in the water I tried to relax, but after remembering the 35.000 dollars debt I was in, my heart sank. I thought that if I went into deeper waters I would start to enjoy this trip, so I went ahead, the water went from my torso to my elbows. I waved back at Timmy, he was already building a glorious sandcastle, but when I rotated my body again my feet stumbled and I fell off a rock into the water, so deep, my foot didn't touch the ground for almost two seconds. I don't know how to swim, I never learned even though I live near a beach and had plenty of opportunities, I should have panicked, but I wanted to try something. Because I never swam I also never opened my eyes underwater. So when I touched the ground, I got on my knees. I was thinking about how it will be painful to open my eyes, but after something like ten to twenty seconds I finally mustered up the courage and opened them. They stung, but only for a little bit, and then it felt incredibly natural. When I opened my eyes I saw the most gorgeous, breathtaking shade of sapphire blue I have ever seen. I stood there on my knees, as if I was praying, and just admired it. Then, out of nowhere a violet line stroke my vision, it was almost like the aurora borealis, it looked like too much pain has fallen on the canvas and it is now dripping. Then appeared more colors like a bright yellow, green, and shy stain of red. I realized that after so much time looking I was probably already drowning, I didn't feel any air in my chest and I couldn't breathe, but that didn't seem to bother me so much. I felt a weird sense of peace, I have never seen such a beautiful sight in my existence and the only thing I wanted to do was stare at it. I didn't think about anything, I didn't care about anything above the water. After a while I forgot my name, I forgot who I was. In the following seconds after that I forgot that I was there, I forgot that I was existing, the only things that existed were the colors. It was a blissful state. Then, out of nowhere my world got invaded, destroyed in a couple of seconds. A hand, I don't know whos, jerked me by the arm and pulled me up, back where I was standing before. As I was being pulled up the colors were rapidly eaten by a dark blue void. I felt outraged, angry that someone would destroy such a thing. When my head reached above the water I felt even more outraged as I began to cough water. After a while I heard: "Are you ok?", and then came the question, who am I? At that moment all my life came flooding back to me. I responded, between coughs, with a quiet "yes". After reason came back to me I realized that I may have died right there, if I wasn't saved. I felt really thankful for that. My savior helped me back to shore. After resting a bit I went to help Timmy with the sandcastle. I stopped caring, even if just for a while, of all my problems and started enjoying myself, if it hadn't been for the colors I may have never been able to do such a thing.


I swallowed both pills with a glass of water and sat the little brown container on my dresser. I’d had no reason to wonder over to this part of the bedroom in quite some time and the dust had already began to settle on the tops of my make-up containers and lipstick lids. Today was better, I was able to get out of bed and I even had an appetite for breakfast. Good thing too, the doctor had told me only to take the antidepressants with a good meal. I didn’t deserve to be on antidepressants. I didn’t deserve to be depressed. I scrambled some eggs along with a small pot of oats. I wasn’t used to cooking breakfast for one and threw half of the oats away. My husband had moved out into a bed & breakfast a few days ago. We’d never had an argument in our 12 years together, nothing serious anyway, yet now we couldn’t be in the same room as each other. It would always start the same way. Each of us staring into space, praying not to catch the others’ eye. One of us trying to start a light hearted conversation or questioning the silence we’d created, moments later we’d be screaming hatred towards each other, locking ourselves in separate rooms and falling deeper into the silence. How suddenly things can change at yet how slow time seems to move after they do. The last 2 months seemed like they’d lasted an eternity and yet the last 12 years had passed by, leaving only the sourest and most heartbreaking memories behind. Every photo, every gift, every item bought together, even the cracks in the walls and the creases in the sofa brought memories that would split my chest open and fill it knives. My lungs felt like they were made of glass, cracking and breaking with every breath I took. Daily tasks were near impossible and hope was a distant treasure, like an exquisite meal once eaten who’s flavour I had no recollection of. I carried the overflowing laundry basket upstairs and sat it beside the washing machine. Perhaps this is what recovery would look like. Perhaps I would never be myself again but instead dusted off, polished, a big smile painted on my face and I’d be placed on display like a ceramic doll. Hollow from within, brittle to the touch but presentable enough as to not disturb anyone looking from the outside. I kneeled beside the washing machine and one-by-one placed each item of clothing into it. Even the smallest tasks now needed to be broken down into even smaller morsels that I could manage. A sock caught itself on the lip of the machine so I prized it free with my thumb while my other hand reached into the laundry basket and pulled out a soft, fuzzy, little sweater. I stopped at once, my body became numb and cold as tears welled up in my eyes and I let out a whimper. I turned to look at it and held it in both hands. Tears distorted my focus on the sweater but its baby blue colour was clear as day, the bright purple sequences on its chest dazzled up at me. I could almost see her, looking up at me again. “Mum, mum! Please can I have this sweater. I love it I love it I love it please!” “Ok ok only if you help me put the shopping away once we get home” “oh yes! I love you mum, I can’t wait to wear this to school \*gasp\* and my birthday! It’s ok mum, this can be my birthday present. Thank you!” I hugged the sweater tight against my chest and breathed in the sweet aroma of my baby. I cried into it, visualising her holding me. “It’s ok mummy” I could hear her say “It’s ok, don’t cry. It doesn’t hurt anymore”. I let out a wail, I could feel my tears soaking the sweater but I couldn’t stop. I was no longer in my body, I was no longer anywhere but in my child's arms. My child, my only child. She was mine and nobody else’s, not even God’s. I carried her, she was a part of me. I alone endured the pain from her birth. That was the deal and that made her mine. I raised her, worried for her, disciplined her, taught her right from wrong, nurtured her mind, supported her. I lay awake every night when she screamed in agony from the therapy, I timed her hourly medication, I hunted down every cancer expert in the world, worked overtime for her private treatment. I smiled as she lay, dying in my arms, telling her “mummy is here... everything is ok”- I buried her. I cried till my eyes were dry and burning red. I lowered the sweater away from my face, it sat heavy in my hands carrying my tears and mucous. I felt a small hand, her hand, press gently on my shoulder. I turned to see nobody there. But across the hall, her bedroom door lay ajar, swaying gently with the draft passing out of her room. I carried the sweater with me as I entered her room and moved over to close the window when I saw my husband walking down the driveway, flowers in his hand. It had felt like a lifetime since I last saw him. For once I saw him not as my husband but as a complete stranger. I saw his innocence, his vulnerability. I saw the bags under his sunken eyes and the roughness of his hair. Yet he was familiar and beautiful for it. In every way the handsome, charming man I’d chosen to spend my life with. Long before she came into the world and so it should be, long after she left it. In that moment I knew that there was only one person who loved her as I did, and that was him. I walked down the stairs and opened the front door to find him standing there. His eyes were red and glistened with tears. He looked down at the sweater in my hands, then up at me. “I can’t do this alone” his lip quivered as he spoke. I stepped forward and hugged him as tight as I could. The sweater sandwiched between us and her aroma filled the air around us. “Then let's do it together” I whispered into his ear.


Content Warning: mentions of domestic violence, postpartum depression, anger issues, substance abuse Something in my brain shifted when he slammed his glass on the table and shouted “grow up!” He continued speaking, a blur of angry expressions and fists hitting the table. My head was swimming, ears ringing, like my hearing had been knocked out. I was more focused on the glass, a gift I’d gotten him as an inside joke: world’s best teacher. He chipped the rim with his temper tantrum. Every pound to the wood made the whiskey slosh and splash the ungraded essays scattered about. He finally stopped, his tense hands spread out and holding up his weight, his too-blue eyes staring a hole into the glass. I used to love his hands, how they’d touch and thrill and tease me in secret. He had never said anything like that to me. Grow up . I repeated the words slowly, tasting the syllables, not quite understanding their meaning. He’d never mentioned age. He never told me I was mature, or adult, or grown up. He went out of his way to avoid the topic. He had simply respected me, treating me like he would treat someone his own age. It had never felt wrong with him. My next words came out in a whisper, a painful shock to the yelling and hitting moments before. “So I guess I wasn’t grown up enough when we got together?” There was a glimmer of emotion in his eyes, initially reading as anger, but I knew it was guilt. I was sixteen years old, barely old enough to drive yet, and he was thirty. And why did it never seem wrong until this moment? My eyes searched around the lavish house in the suburbs that he had to have. The kitchen was a mess, which had started the fight in the first place. Toys were scattered on the floor, the high chair was dirty from meals days before, and the dishes piled in the sink. I don’t even remember the last time I had a shower. The depression is overwhelming, which is what I tried to explain to him. I was reaching out for help and he started screaming in my face that I can’t even do my one job. And now we’re here. I saw the stacks of essays in my peripheral. A similar stack had once held an essay of mine, written with after school help from the cute new teacher. I never felt nervous around him, not like when I tried to flirt with boys my own age. In that moment I felt powerful, filled with stupid hormonal lust. I touched his leg when he finished reading my paper, giggling and claiming it was an accident. But I doubt it was accidental when he placed his hand on my cheek and kissed me. Now, the only time his hand meets my cheek is when he hits me, and the only time he kisses me is when he wants sex. I don’t know why I did it-pursuing a man twice my age. The original plan was to get him to sleep with me, a bet my friends and I made. That’s all I wanted, but then I started catching feelings. First love is a powerful drug. The guilt on his face disappears, replaced with his usual false sense of swagger, alpha male. He takes a sip from his chipped cup, laughing, a cynical sound saved for when you’re really angry. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” “Then tell me what you meant,” I started, not realizing I had these words on the tip of my tongue. “Tell me what the hell you meant, because I’ve sacrificed everything for you!” I put too much emphasis on the word everything, bringing my fist down onto the countertop. I hear the baby crying from the next room. I suppose that describes my experience of motherhood-Daddy can hit the table and even slap Mommy across the face, and Baby sleeps right through it, but when Mommy gets loud and stands her ground, Baby wakes right up. He looked back down, passing the cup between his hands. The look on his face suggested that our argument was over. “Aren’t you going to take care of that?” He pointed his cup towards the sound of crying. “No.” “No? Why? The baby is crying and it’s your job to calm him down.” I was in his face in an instant, sarcastically listing on my fingers. “He’s fed, he’s changed, the sound machine is on, he’s fine.” I felt crazy, like I was losing my mind. I snatch the cup out of his hands, something I know he hates. A part of me is afraid he’ll hit me for it, but the bigger part of me doesn’t care. I swallow the rest of the liquor. “That’s the baby you wanted so badly, why don’t you go and soothe him? Oh wait,” I laugh. “He doesn’t know who Daddy is, because Daddy is never here, and when he is here, he’s drunk! and yelling! and hitting on Mommy!” I’ve finally lost my shit. The look on his face is priceless, he’s shocked that I said that. I expect him to also start yelling. He looks into my eyes, and I ready myself for a fight. I feel every emotion, from anger to resentment to nostalgia to desperation. I give him pleading eyes. We’ve gotten away from who we used to be, but I don’t want to just lose him. I want him to start understanding me for who I am now. “Who are you?” he asks calmly, his tone more frightening than if he’d gotten in my face and screamed the words. I’m his former student that was supposed to be a one-time fling. I never meant to fall for him but I did, and stupidly. My friends judged and looked down on me, constantly reminding me of the age gap. I came to him during his lunch period one day, begging him to move far away with me. I was crying about my friends reactions, telling him that I only wanted him, forever. He agreed, saying whatever you want, you can have. I replied, I only want you, and he said I’m all yours. They threatened to call the police and report him if I didn’t break things off. I lied and told them I did. They consoled me in my fake break-up, saying that he was only manipulating me. I only ever wanted you. I was terrified when I got pregnant, but you were so excited and happy, so I had our baby. I wanted to go to college, but I gave up my dreams for you. For our family , you constantly said. True love conquers all, you told me once, your hands gently cupping my face as we stayed after school yet again, resorting to janitor’s closets and dark, locked classrooms just to finally be alone together. I placed my hand on top of his. I had waited too long to answer his question. “I love you,” I told him, but he wouldn’t look at me. “I’ve loved you for a long time and I don’t think I can just stop loving you.” He removed his hand from underneath mine, staring at the wall for much too long, then whispered, “I can. We’re just too different.” The cup must have cracked more than I thought, because it shatters, the same moment that my heart broke and our lives together shattered.


Ah, I really need to pee. I stare at my mother's tear stained face and wonder if this is the appropriate situation to excuse myself to go empty my bladder. I felt bad having to leave her for such a menial reason, but as I watched her tears streaming down her face, I came to the epiphany that my urine would be streaming down my clothes if I didn’t use the restroom soon. “Go, go,” an auntie gently patted my shoulder, looking at me with a face of empathy. “It’s okay, the rest of us are here for your mother. You need some time too, the death of a loved one is a difficult thing to process.” I guess I looked uncomfortable, which I was, but not for the reason she thought I was. But instead of telling her that I just needed to go pee, I tried my best to return her kind words with a grateful smile but I’m sure it turned out crooked. She stroked my head lovingly, giving me a sympathetic smile before leaving me to go be with my mother among the other dozens of the women who flocked to her side during the funeral. She had cried all her tears to the point where she had vomited, literally letting everything out. Now she simply sat still next to the casket, looking numb and broken. All I could do was watch. She didn’t feel like my mother anymore, as if her soul had left with him and she left me with her shell. She always loved him so dearly. I heaved myself to the restroom, leaving behind my mother and the rest of the funeral behind me for a brief moment. Finally being able to empty out your bladder always feels great, even after someone dies. The fluorescent light flickers ever so lightly as I lather my hands in some type of ambiguously-floral scented soap before rinsing off the suds of soap with cold water, watching bubbles disappear down the drain. As I turn off the water, my eyes flicker to the mirror and. I looked awfully put together for someone who’s supposedly grieving. Should I have been hysterically crying? It’s not like the deceased was a stranger, he was my best friend. But why didn’t I feel sad? My lack of sadness was balanced by the uncomfortable feeling in my chest. It didn’t hurt, it was just uncomfortable. I stared deeper into my reflection, I looked blank. I felt blank. All I could do was stare like an idiot. Was grief always like this? I watched as my reflection opened its mouth, “Do you blame yourself?” The words were as light as the wind, but reverberated in my ears. "What?" I mutter, disturbed. It was a face that looked so much like me, a voice that sounded so much like me, but it just wasn't me. I stared at the mirror, whatever that thing was, it wasn't simply my reflection anymore. It stared at me expectantly, urging me to answer its question. Was I going insane? Is this psychosis? Or are ghosts real? "Do you blame yourself?" The entity in the mirror repeated. There was no malicious intent in its voice, or maybe I was just oblivious. “I do,” I answer. Maybe this is a dumb decision, this always how people die in the movies but I didn’t care. “I really do.” I tear my eyes away from the mirror and stare at the sink, the uncomfortable feeling in my chest magnifying. I look back at the mirror and whatever was there is gone, my own eyes stare back at me. I clutched my chest, not knowing what the hell was going on but the uncomfortable feeling in my chest was getting worse. 𝌀 “I was afraid you fell into the toilet or some shit,” my brother bumped his shoulder into mine, chuckling as he watched me stumble into a tall vase of flowers. “Why so pale? Run into a ghost?” I look back at him with a sigh, “Maybe.” I say as I try to make sure the expensive-looking porcelain vase wasn’t chipped. “It’s so weird.” “What is?” “Being at a funeral for someone you love.” “Really?” “Really,” I took a good look at my brother, the uncomfortable feeling in my chest coming back. He was still wearing that yellow shirt, contrasting from the black swarm of funeral attendees. He smiled before grabbing my hand and leading me back to everyone, “Come on, the prayers are starting soon. Mom’s looking for you.” I walked behind him, like a duckling following their mother. All I could do was stare at the back of his head, only then did the uncomfort morph into pain. “I’m sorry,” I muttered as we walked. He said nothing. 𝌀 Parents not having favorites is bullshit, and kids know. My mother always loved him more, who wouldn’t have? My golden brother, a boy as bright as the sun. I was always in his shadow but that was okay, his light was bright enough for the both of us. His shadow was a comfortable place, he always took care of me. If I had no one, I had my brother. I stared at the smiling portrait of my brother on top of his casket then turned to see him staring at it as well with a scowl. “Why’d they choose this photo, my forehead looks huge!” He clicks his tongue in distaste as he turns to me. “How could you let them, my beloved sister? You should’ve chosen a better picture!” My brother has always been overdramatic, I guess some things don’t change even after death. I turn my head down to not meet anyone’s eyes. It’s a bad look to be laughing at your older brother’s funeral, especially when no one else can see his spirit. Whether this ghost was really my brother or my imagination, I couldn’t find it in myself to care. I just missed my brother. I look away from my dead brother’s whining and stare at my alive mother, she was the one who truly looked dead. My mother and I had a somewhat strained relationship, partially due to her favoritism but I still loved her. Her anguish left a bitter taste in my mouth, the pain clawing at my ribs. Maybe if I was the one in the casket, she wouldn’t be in this state. I tried to sit through the prayers quietly, but that pain within my chest wouldn’t subside. My face was wet, I was crying. No matter how many times I dabbed my face dry they’d keep falling. It should’ve been me. That’s all I could think about, the short sentence reverberating in my mind. “Man, being at your own funeral is weird.” My brother commented as he sat next to me. I looked once more at my dead brother then at my mourning mother, I felt something break. “I’m sorry,” the word spilled out. “It should have been me.” I clutched my chest, the pain, it wouldn’t stop. All I could do was sob and repeat the sentence. “Stop!” My mother screamed, I looked up at her, her eyes were wide with horror. “How could you say- no, how could you even think that?” Before I knew it, her hands enveloped my face, her thumbs desperately wiping my tears. “Do you honestly think I’d be doing better if that was you instead of your brother?” Her voice broke mid-sentence. I stare at my mother, my mind feels numb and confused. How is it possible that she looks more heartbroken now? “Mom I’m-” “Stop apologizing!” She looked at me and I could see tears well up in her eyes. “My son is already dead, I don’t need my daughter wishing she was dead!” Her arms embrace me as she sobs, holding on to me as if she’s scared I might disappear. My vision blurs and next thing I know is I’m sobbing too. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my brother walk toward his casket. His yellow shirt gleams in the light. He turns back to me and smiles. I return it, even though my face is tearstained and smeared with snot. I close my eyes, and when I open them he’s gone.


“Move along, buddy.” “Hey, man, I’m not doing anything wrong.” “Yeah, I’ve heard it all before. Come on, give someone else the spot.” The cop stood there unmoving while the younger man gathered his belongings into a backpack scowling. Ushering him out the door into the masses the officer nodded his head to the empty seat, looking at me. “Ma’am?” As relieved as I was to get off my feet, I hardly wanted the attention, nor the title of “Ma’am”. I smiled as I took a seat on the newly empty stool, opting to hold my purchase rather than place it on the messy counter. The aroma of pumpkin spice replacing the smell of weed was refreshing. Looking out the window I searched for Alexa. The crowd seemed to move as one, faces flushed and tense, pushing along luggage enroute to their destinations. What is he going to be like, I wondered for the millionth time. The mysterious text to meet in Miami was on my mind since receiving it last weekend. I checked my phone for any updates, pleased to see a new notification. “Just landed,” my daughter’s text from five minutes ago. Glancing at the array of clocks from each time zone, I quickly calculated that I still had some time before going to her gate. Unlike Reefer Boy, the previous occupier of the seat, my overpriced purchase was a ticket to sit rather than to loiter and I took my first sip. Bits and pieces of surrounding conversations floated around me. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but honestly had no choice. The customer at the register was making a to do about her order, repeating the complicated specials as if a lifesaving concoction in a lab or hospital. Come on, lady, mellow out. Maybe I should set her up with Reefer Boy, I thought, fighting the urge to laugh at the image. There’s one in every crowd who has to make a scene. I couldn’t resist and turned away from the view of the waiting area and craned my neck. Yup, there she was with her husband, boyfriend or whoever the unfortunate man was next to her looking like he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. There was a line forming behind them and I heard the exaggerated sighs and witnessed the eyerolls. Another text vibrated my phone. “Getting off the plane. See you at Gate 11.” A glance at the sign through the window showed I had a bit of a walk. Using the napkins with the famous logo I cleaned the counter of muffin crumbs, leaving it nicer for the next customer than it was left for me. Joining the sea of luggage toting travelers, I started my walk to Gate 11 when I sniffed like a bloodhound and caught a scent. No way, not again. Mixed into the stagnant air was the undisputable scent of what we called back in the day MaryJane. Increasing my pace to a walk-run, I continued my journey to Gate 11 eager to see my daughter after an entire semester without any visits. Becoming trapped in a parade of businessmen in their suits and ties despite the stifling humidity I pushed through with an aggressive stream of excuse me, pardon me like a little fish swimming against the current, fearful of getting swept out to sea. Gate 12 appeared with passengers lining up ready to board, paperwork in hand, parents grasping the arms of squirming little ones. One more gate until I see my daughter to find out her big news. My cell chimed simultaneously with another phone close by and when I stopped to respond someone in my peripheral vision did the same. There she was! Unaffected by the lack of adequate air conditioning Alexa appeared cool, calm, and collected, and quite beautiful. Her eyes darted about, then settled just to the right of me as she took off into a sprint. Waving my arms frantically I tried to get her attention. As if moving in slow motion with the old fashioned whoomp, whoomp, whoomp noise whirring in my head she reached a young man, and they shared quite the passionate greeting. Pulling apart, she wrinkled her nose, an expression leftover from childhood when something struck her as distasteful, upsetting. What was happening? I took the final steps to approach my daughter with a smile to light up the entire area, readying myself for whatever was about to unfold. “Ma!” She screamed delightedly. “Finally. Meet my boyfriend, Kurt.” I turned to find myself face to face with none other than Reefer Boy. My heart sunk like a stone. My beautiful daughter. My princess. Didn’t we teach her better than this? I scrambled to find my manners. I didn’t want to be that woman making a scene, the one in every crowd that everyone either pretends isn’t there or watches with amusement like I had just witnessed a few minutes earlier. “Hello Kurt! Nice to meet you,” I forced a quivering lip smile in his direction. “Great to meet you too! I’ve been looking forward to this.” He smiled a broad smile, his eyes a pretty shade of blue similar to my daughters’. They made a striking couple. I was surprised, would have been happy. “Ma, wait until Kurt tells you what happened today. It’s the funniest thing.” “Yeah, funny to you, maybe. Not so funny to me.” “Tell me!” I became curious as to what Alexa considered to be the funniest thing. “Everything was great until I got into the Uber. It stunk. Like positively reeked of weed. The last riders must have been partying like there’s no tomorrow.” He paused. “Oh wow,” I commented for lack of anything better to say. “Ever since I got out of that cloud I feel like it’s been following me around. Amazing how people have been treating me since I walked into the airport.” My daughter started laughing. “It’s so funny, he’s completely anti-drug, like never even tried pot. I bet he got a buzz in the Uber.” She was outright laughing at him. “Tell my mom what happened when you got here.” “Yeah, I was minding my own business and got thrown out of Starbucks. Police officer and all. I was mortified.” Alexa covered her mouth with her hands, hiding her laughter, her new diamond ring flashing, giving away the news before she was ready. I felt the flutter of excitement but kept it in allowing her to tell me at her own pace. I looked at her fiancé, my future son-in-law, seeing how he was laughing good naturedly. I felt my face flush thinking of how many times I thought of him as Reefer Boy. I think I’ll keep that to myself for now.


"Do you like it? It's so cute, and it's like $5 on Etsy! I have to give you the store name sometime!" Avery's smile glinted in the candlelight as she let me hold the tiny pendant. It looked like a spider was wrapped around the cork of a bottle, a dark red liquid swirling around to catch the light. The liquid almost seemed like a witch's potion, a glittery substance reflecting the orange light in my face. "Does it come in other colors?" I asked. She looked a little upset at the thought, but the smile was back in a moment. God, I could get lost in those white teeth, even more than the field of green that made up her eyes. "Nah, not yet anyway. But I'm sure if you ask the seller, they'd be more than happy to try out a different color for you! Maybe you'd be her first beta wearer for a new design!" Avery's enthusiasm was what helped me relax when we first met in person an hour ago. Her Bumble profile was what introduced me to her infectious smile, but her bio got me even more curious. She mentioned her love for historical figures, especially those that weren't as well known, so I messaged her about it. We got into a rabbit hole, and she wanted to meet me in person. Me! I felt like a businesswoman about to make a major presentation when putting on my dark blue dress, and there she was, dressed to party in her green dress. But those curls, the way her red hair turned to fire under the restaurant's dim fluorescent lights, the smile that drew you in; I knew it was her even before she greeted me at the door. By the time we saw the front waiter, any worries I had about meeting a practical stranger had melted away. "Anyway, would you like me to get you something to drink?" I felt like I was back in middle school, pretending to be an adult to someone several years my junior. Her smile somehow grew even bigger, and I worried her lips would reach her ears soon enough. "Oh! How about a Seven Oaks Cabernet? It's super fruity, but it'll go well with some fish!" Avery mentioned she was a pescatarian, of course she'd know good wines for the job. Almost like magic, our waiter arrived. She had to be carded, but not me; my hair must've given away my age long before my anti-aging cream. But she'd wanted to see me without my dyed hair from my profile picture, so I let the roots return to their natural color. "So, who're some folks you wanted to know about? Or was there something else you wanted to talk about?" Her faux-silver spider glared at me from her bare chest, but I tried to return my gaze to her smile. "Well, I hoped to know more about you, but you can start wherever." Her eyes turned coy as she rested her chin against the backs of her hands. "It just so happens I finished a podcast about a fascinating woman back in the early 1900s. She had quite a spell of lovers, though that was after she married two men prior. But, I'm not gonna say the name until the end!" The wine glasses were set before us, the wine almost black against the candlelight. "You worried I'll Google the name first?" Avery laughed, and I swore I could see bubble float from her lips into the air above us. I wish I could figure out the spell she cast to keep my attention on her. "A little, but don't worry! I'm sure you've heard of it, so I want it to be a surprise!" She cleared her throat, took a sip of wine, and then let her voice dance as she began. "In the early 1900s, it's easy to start a new life without worrying about the people around you. All you had to do was jump countries, and bam! No one knew who you were, and quite frankly, no one really gave a damn so long as you were a hard worker. This woman was one of those who wanted a fresh start, and came to America to make it big. But, after an unhappy marriage, she decided she'd had enough of being poor and went to work concocting the means to get rich quick. As it happens, insurance was quite new with a lot less regulation than we have now. So--" "--did she kill her husband?!" Avery looked like I'd slapped her, but only for a moment. She laughed and winked at me over her glass. "You got it! They'd been married a few years, and hey, he had a larger heart than normal, so really was it a surprise that he keeled over without warning? Anyway, she got her wish, and in fact it was her lucky day as he had two active plans going at once. But of course, that money doesn't last very long, so what's a widower to do?" She looked to me to answer, though I almost choked on my wine before I could respond. "Would...would she try to get with someone else?" The smile was back again, though this time her teeth turned a strange orange color. "Multiple someones, in fact. She was considered a Black Widow in her day, but not the Marvel kind. She would allegedly lure men into her secluded farming home and then they'd mysteriously vanish." The black wine suddenly churned in my stomach; I wasn't prepared for this just yet. I quietly excused myself to the bathroom to give myself a moment to compose myself. Younger people seemed a lot more apt to jump into these murder tales than I was. A brief splash of cold water to the face later and I was back at the table. Avery looked at me with her signature smile as I returned, but I was a lot more prepared now than I was. I took a few gulps of wine before I realized it, and she mentioned that she'd ordered our food for me. "I hope you don't mind having some salmon!" "I don't, thank you!" I lied. Avery's smile stayed on her face as we advanced into a different conversation. A few minutes later, I felt like I wasn't as calm as I was before. It was like my legs were permanently tensed up, though I couldn't figure out why. "Did you know Belle had children too?" I looked back at her, her smile looking a lot more manic than it had when we first met each other. "Yep, several kids. Of those, she killed about three or four the same way. Can you guess how?" I didn't want to answer the question, as a slow realization dawned on me. Why did her spider seem to mock me from the woman before me? The last thing I remember seeing was the spider leaping from her bottle and crawling towards me and me jerking away from it. I don't remember hitting the floor, but I remember how cold it was when my eyes closed.