Resolve. At the academy it was stated that this was a characteristic that set him apart from the other candidates. Crawling through muddy water and beneath barbed wire became another day in the office for him. In their early 20’s, the other students knew little of loss or pain. Cowboys from small farming towns mostly, seeking the glory from the heroism promised to them by the officers that came to the career fair along with the FFA teaching students how to properly milk cattle. It was no surprise that half of them opted to pursue a badge instead of reaching for an utter. There was no drive for them, no deeper meaning for them to be here. No resolution to the restlessness they felt aside from the escape from the clutch of the small farming towns that held them down like a cinderblock tied to the leg of someone who has upset the mob. Jon was the exception; he replayed the night on repeat in his head. A call received 1 AM that he chose to ignore thinking it was another telemarketer like the one that had bothered him the night before. The next morning, he woke up to 23 missed calls from his mother, 32 from his father, and one, one lone missed call from his younger sister, Ashley. He started with this one, thinking it odd that the volume of calls was not as high as the others. Her voice sounded scattered and timid like she could not properly collect her thoughts “Hey sorry to wake you up I’m... I’m probably being paranoid, but I’m walking home from this Alt-J concert I went to and I swear this guy is like... he keeps making the same turns as me... anyway wanted to pretend I was calling the cops to see if it would work so ignore this next part; HI, YES OFFICER I THINK THAT THIS GUY IS LIKE FOLLOWING ME HO....” The message cut out abruptly. Jon cursed under his breath. Her ancient I-phone had a terrible battery life, and half the time he tried to contact her it was dead. He tried the latest message from his father “JON WAKE UP, ASHLEY IS MISSING, SHE DIDN’T COME HOME LAST NIGHT WE NEED TO KNOW IF SHE WENT TO STAY WITH YOU.” The blood in Jon’s veins grew thick and he felt as if he might faint. He tried to find leads himself after it happened. How could he not? He used the last known location of his sister on Find my Friend, the corner of 5 th and Cedar, and wandered for hours hoping to find some shred of evidence that everyone else had somehow overlooked, to no avail. When Jon failed, he crawled into a bottle of navy strength gin and stayed there until one night while on his usual bender, the Alt-J song “Tesselate” came on the radio, and he was instantly reminded of why he was there in the first place. The next week he applied to the police academy. Jon raised his hand in a small classroom filled with other police academy candidates. The students behind him could see that the first two knuckles on his right hand were bruised from sparring. Jon had gained notoriety for taking the exercises a little too seriously. Like many in his situation he sought out self-inflicted forms of physical harm to cope with the insurmountable thought that it was his fault his sister was still missing. “Use a calm voice and build a rapport with the individual by telling them basic information about yourself and asking them about themselves.” The class was in suicide prevention, and the question related to what an officer should say when a tortured soul was threatening to jump. Under his breath Jon muttered, “That’s what they did for me at least.” “Sorry, what was that, Jon?” “That’s what I would do, at the very least, sir.” Upon receiving his badge, Jon sought out trouble. He sped towards active shootings and received three complaints about unnecessary brutality when arresting a dealer attempting to peddle something stronger than marijuana to a minor. While not strictly by the book, the actions, in his mind at least, were justified. A slap on the wrist or community service for someone creating a drug habit in children was just not enough for Jon to be satisfied, so again the bruises on the first two knuckles of his right hand formed. His captain disagreed with his self-imposed sense of justice, and his antics frequently landed him in hot water. So today, when Jon was called in to answer for his latest antics he made the walk across the office like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs to the condescending looks of the other officers, including his own partner, who didn’t share his affinity for going overboard and was frequently the reason he was turned in. “Have a seat there, Jon.” The captain took out a folder of all his indiscretions and slammed it down onto the desk with an authoritative crash. “Do you know what this is Jon?” “Fan mail?” “Perhaps letters from admiring parents thanking me for keeping their children off drugs?” “Or better yet, an apology letter from you to your ex-wife, begging her to come back and promising not to spend New Year’s Eve in the office chastising your best officer instead of with your only daughter.” “Enough, you smug prick.” “I’m suspending you from field work, effective immediately, if I see you away from that desk in the next month, you’re done, is that clear son?” “As crystal.” Jon slumped back down in his chair and stared at all the paperwork on his desk leaning like a tower with poor foundation in downtown San Francisco. Jon turned on two radios, one for music and the other the police radio he was so accustomed to listening to in hopes that some form of incident would call him into battle. The static on radio 2 crackled “reports of a drunk driver heading eastbound on I-8” Jon flipped through the case files, and lethargically typed out incident reports on his computer. As the night wore on more and more officers left on patrol or to go home to their respective families until Jon was the only one remaining. In the spotlight of his desk lamp, he felt like one of the suspects he had interrogated so many times before. Alt-J came onto radio 1 “Breezeblocks”. Jon opened the drawer to his desk and stared at the bottle of navy strength gin he kept there to remind himself of how far he had come. From the front pocket of his uniform, he took out his 5 year coin, then used it to pop the cork out of the top of the bottle. They say it only takes one sip for an alcoholic to return to their former condition regardless of how much time had elapsed. A familiar numb came over him and the pain from the song softened slightly and made the night a little more bearable. The volume of the bottle waned like a moon hiding from astronomers as the days grew longer, until half of it sat empty on the desk. Jon rested his head on a pillow sized stack of papers and drifted slowing into a restless sleep. The static from radio 2 stirred him from his drunken stupor “Missing person, last known location corner of 5 th and Cedar. White female, late 20’s.” Jon sat up like a child who had just discovered what happened when you stick a fork into an electrical outlet. He got to his feet, without hesitation holstered his gun and stumbled past the other desks, dropping lamps and paperwork as he walked. He unlocked his squad car and after multiple tries guided the keys into the ignition. In a craze he sped past stop signs and made his way toward the crossroad his sister had disappeared from years before. A white sedan sped fast through the intersection, trying to catch a yellow light. The driver was a man of small stature with a large beard and square framed transition glasses. Jon dropped his phone between the seats and did not care to ease up on the gas pedal as he fished for the device in between them. Thinking he was invincible with the sirens on, Jon slammed into the driver’s site of the small sedan and sent both vehicles into a whirlwind of bent metal and glass shards. Recovering more quickly than the other driver, Jon emerged from his car with a sense of dread that filled his lungs, displacing the cold air of the winter night. He stumbled towards the window of the white sedan and cringed at the blood dripping down the man’s forehead. Shards of glass littered his clothing, and the airbag failed to deploy, meaning that the combined momentum from the two vehicles was transferred directly into the skull of the dead man in the driver’s seat. Jon checked for a pulse, mostly out of habit, knowing the answer would not bring him peace. Nothing. Jon tried the handle, but it was fused to the car. He reached into the right pocked of the man through the window to check for identification, and when his hand emerged again small cuts from the glass added to the bruised decorations on his hand like some demented Christmas tree. Joseph P. Kosh. 144323 Cedar Street. Jon paused. The voice from his instructor rang in his ears. “52 percent of all car accidents happen within a 5 minute radius of the residence.” Jon typed the address into his phone, and sure enough 4 blocks over stood the residence of Joseph P. Kosh. His career was over, he knew this. Beating up a drug dealer was nothing when compared to murdering a civilian on New Year’s Eve while driving drunk in a squad car. In his altered state Jon decided the most logical course of action would be to try to explain to the family what had happened to their father, or son, or uncle. He owed them that, at least some feeble attempt to describe why he was driving in the state he was in. He stumbled the 4 blocks to the house, an old brick home that was poorly kept with faded paint and ancient windowpanes that clung to the house for dear life. Jon limped up the steps and made it to the front door. He knocked. No answer. He tried again. Nothing. I’ll leave a note, it won’t be long before someone reports the accident, and the captain finds a way to hang me out to dry for good. Jon took a small lockpick set out from the inside of his wallet. Not strictly standard issue, but when the occasion arose the kit was invaluable. A few turns later he was in. He stumbled into the small house. The floor was littered with Bud Light cans, and an ashtray overflowed on the small wooden coffee table. The place reeked of nicotine and something else that Jon could not quite place. Mold perhaps? He clicked on the light from his toolbelt and scanned the house for signs of other occupants. Nothing. Walking through the living room he passed a small bathroom that smelled of urine and middle school body spray. Continuing down the hall he found the bedroom. Above the bed was a picture of a clown smiling brightly in the florescent light cast upon him. “Bit of a creep Joseph” Jon mumbled to himself. Quickly regretting his decision to enter the home of his victim he scanned the room for a piece of paper onto which he could scribble a half-hearted apology for any relation that might care to know how Joseph had passed. Upon the desk in the corner a laptop stood open. Jon moved the mouse, deciding that an email would do if it meant spending one less second in this god forsaken clown sewer. The laptop came to life to an opened email from Southwest airlines. A one-way flight to Mexico, red eye, leaving at 12pm. Odd, Jon thought to himself, some form of new year’s resolution perhaps? A new start in a different country? Jon shined the light around the room further to make sure he was alone. His light caught the closet, the sliding door to which stood open. A perfect row of multicolored sweaters stood lined up with individual tags on each one. Leaving the desk, Jon began inspecting the tags, starting with the one furthest to the left of the closet. Sarah P. 1991 - Pearl Jam. He tried the next, Kristy S. 1992 - Nirvana. The tags continued, one for each year, always a woman’s name, always with a concert corresponding to the year scribbled on the tag. Jon’s hands began to shake, and from down the street he heard sirens approaching. “No, no, no, no, no, no, not yet” 2003, 2013, 2017..... then finally, 2022. Jon stared in disbelief at the red sweater he had bought his sister 5 years prior, upon the tag, in neat small handwriting were the words “Ashley P. 2022 - Alt J.”


Bitter Day Bitter Coffee He started his day like any other person that enjoys a nice cup of folders would. He wakes up at 5 a.m. turns on the morning news and gets a pot of coffee on. He goes out to the front porch to grab his newspaper but something is off. There is a group of older teenagers hanging out down the street on the corner. Only they are there way early. He already woke up today with this feeling he couldnt shake nor describe and the suspicious kids down on the corner didnt help. He decided to write it off and continue on to make his cup of coffee. Only to realize he is basically out of sugar, which didnt help that feeling either, he decides to do without and sit down to his daily dose of caffeine and information. As he sat and drank his bitter coffee and watched this story on the news he continued to get more and more disgusted. Thinking about his life he had no kids no wife, Nothing to leave behind. He was always letting his mind drift on how things could be better but they never were an he never much tried. Nonetheless He was watching a story about a woman not too far from where he lives and she was raped, robbed, and left for dead. She was found not 2 miles from where he was sitting. Feeling so hopeless and helpless for her he stood up and began pacing. Everyday he hears these storys but this one was different it was so close to home and he was almost sure who did it. As he was pacing back and forth and figuring how his life has been meaningless, but maybe he could do something here ,He grabbed his .38 special he keeps in the drawer in the bedroom as he paced a little more an thought about these kids, how they feel so entitled to do the things they do he started heading down to the corner block where these kids were earlier. He was in a blind rage. He couldnt belive the inhumanity these boys could have. As he drew nearer he heard them laughing and joking and smoking. As they see him approach all laughter ceases maybe it was the look in the mans eye. One of the older teenagers looks like leader asks "What the fuck do you want?". He responded in a way he normally wouldnt have but the story of that woman just wouldnt leave his mind. In an instant he drew his .38 all the other teenagers took off running but the leader. He was in such a blind rage unsure what he was doing the barrel of the gun had a slight shake to it. The leader asked "You gonna do somethin or what?" Right after asking that the leader whipped out his own gun getting a shot off but not before being hit by the .38 the mad had already drew. As they both lie there 10 feet apart in the middle of the street at 5:30 a.m.


I know it defiantly needs work. I'm really not even crazy about it. Its my first attempt at some first person perspective work and I gotta say, props to people who write first person, its difficult. I deal well with constructive criticism, just don't be an asshole. Oh ans also its my first reddit post ever. :P Well here it is: “It was the coldest night of the year. At least it felt like it. Well actually, every night feels like the coldest night of the year when your family can’t afford two blankets in the Yukon Wasteland. In the Yukon its kill or be killed... viciously. The average life expectancy of that shit hole of a habitat is twenty-three. Twenty-fucking-three. Lottery winners say our good ole pals here in the Hearth live up to a hundred years old! But anyways it was a damn cold night, I believe in November of 2308, correct me if I’m wrong Meg!” Meg replied, “I believe in October, Scotty” “Anyways in October of 2308, the senators came rolling through looking for their weekly tribute except this time, turns out they wanted people, and not just any people, children. The damn Hearth was too lazy to work their own fucking wheat fields. Yup me and Meg were two of the lucky bastards to be taken from our homes in the middle of the night without any prior knowledge or warning. My own parents didn’t even know I was taken. You have no idea what it’s like knowing that you will never see your family ever again. But I think both me and Meg can agree that our lucky little “extended work trip” saved our lives.


Growing up, I was always appreciated. Never once was I told I wasn't good enough, or that I wouldn't amount to anything. My parents weren't like that, my father was a pastor and my mother stayed at home raising us kids. They always looked after us, did what was best for us. And back when we didn't have much family was all we had, sounds a little cliche but it's true. And you would do anything for your family. August 2013 "Antony, come hear," those few words changed my life forever. My father was the type of man who liked to keep his cards close to his chest, never telling anyone anything if he didn't have to. My mother was the only exception to that rule, but the rest of us knew what was really going on. Me and my brother pretended like we didn't, but we did. When he called me over I didn't know if I was getting disowned or rewarded, and that was how he liked to have it. "Antony, me and your mother have been talking and..." the way my father spoke is how I always imagined someone like Caesar talking, a voice of confidence and control that just made you not just want to listen to him, but like you had no choice but to listen to him. "We both think it's time you start helping me down at the church." Now to a normal sixteen-year-old boy, spending their after school time in an old church may not sound like all that much fun. But to me, it was a dream come true, I would get paid to hang out with my dad and I would finally be let into the family business. Little did I know what a rude awakening I was in for down the line. After all, not everyone's father was the head of a major New York crime family. February 2014 By this time the screams and muffled gunshots coming from the back of the church had become less than a mild bother, most of the time I didn't even realize they were there. In a world like this one with violence and death on a daily basis, you had to grow a spine real quick. My father had me keeping the books, making sure that the real one and the one the cops would get if they ever ask were consistent enough to not seem suspicious. I was always good at math, a skill that the rest of my family didn't share. So while my brother Romulus was being groomed to take over the business someday; all intimidation and muscle, I was becoming a cheap teenaged accountant. And as hard as it may be to believe I was actually fine with where I was, unlike most people in the crime family, I didn't have ambitions. I didn't want to be in charge, I didn't need to be. I got to stay in my small room in the back of the church with a desk and a lamp, all that I needed. March 2019 Flash forward five years. Five years of me doing the exact same thing, crunching numbers and putting them in the books. The family was stable, it wasn't what it was but we were doing alright. But that all changed when it came time for my father to name his successor, he didn't give the seat to my brother, who he had been raising into the kind of leader he was... no, he said my name. All and all I was surprised, honoured, but surprised. And when I asked him why he chose me over my brother, he told me, "I don't want another tough brute running this family Antony, we've had enough of that and now they way we make our living is going extinct." He wanted someone smart to help run the family back into its prime, and he chose me to do it. I couldn't just say no, I wanted to but men like my father didn't accept no. So if I couldn't get out of it I would just have to do what he wanted, and I would have to do it the best I possibly could. I respected my father too much to half-ass a job he entrusted me with, even if it was one I didn't want. My brother wasn't too pleased with my father's choice. And I couldn't really blame him, imagine that your entire life, you believed that you had something as a sure thing and then when the moment finally comes it's given to someone else. He felt betrayed, and when our father wasn't around he made sure I knew it, "you scrawny mother fucker, I don't know how you did this but I'm going-." But as soon as dad was back in the room, he went back to being the voiceless thug he actually was, "You're doing the family proud, Antony." He didn't have to like Dads decision, but there was absolutely no way he could question it, not if he wanted to stay in the family. And once he was out of the family he lost all protections, and you don't do the kind of business he's done without making a few enemies. It sounds cliche but it's true. It only took a few months after the announcement that I would be the new Boss for my father to decide that it was time for him to retire. One hand I agreed with him, he was getting older and he didn't need the kind of stress that came with the job. On the other hand, him retiring meant I would have to take over sooner than I was expecting. I thought I would have enough time to prepare myself, I wasn't ready to run the family yet. I always thought my dad would die before giving up his seat, that's just the kind of man he was, he would give everything he had. But he decided to give it up while he was still breathing, and I wasn't quite sure what to do with that, but I didn't have to think about it long. They got me when I was walking home from the church. I should have been safe. But no, one minute you're walking down the street, the next you're chloroformed and thrown in the back of a van. The next thing I remember is waking up in the cliche mob torture warehouse tied to a chair. I mean this place had it all, broken windows, in the middle of nowhere, lots of floor space, the works. At first, I was alone, it's a technique that lets the victim realize the gravity of the situation, let their fear build up. But it didn't really bother me, when my kidnappers finally decided to show themselves, I was entirely disappointed. The pair, a man and a woman, were wearing these weird anime masks with blank smiling expressions. If they were wearing masks that meant I was going home alive and that they would be hunted down like dogs. "Hello, Mr Blackwell," the woman, talked first, calm, clearly a professional. Fortunately for myself, being the son of a crime boss made being kidnapped a real possibility growing up, and learning not to be afraid of stuff like this was just a part of it. My father would have me kidnapped a couple of times a year, just for a situation like this one. "You are going to give up your seat as the head of the Blackwell family and pass it down to your brother." You have no idea how much I wanted to give it up, just to get out of this damp warehouse if nothing else. But my father was the God of his own little world, and if you disappointed him it didn't matter how much he loved you, he would smite you. "And why would I do that." "Because if you don't, we'll carve your face up so good your own mother won't be able to recognise you," I had heard of this lady before, The Plastic Surgeon. She could make anyone's reflection a grotesque stranger if they didn't do what her client wanted, only ever touching the face, she wouldn't lay a finger on anything else. And now it seemed like it was my turn under her knife. "So... whats is going to be kid?" "I'm afraid I'm going to have to say no." And that's when I got the first of many punches. I'm pretty sure she broke my nose, not that it matters in the grand scheme of things. "Alright, that was your one and only chance. I don't care if in five minutes you cry out for me to stop, there are no second chances with me." And that's when the beatings began, up until she said the words that really made me nervous, "go get the belt sander." Over the next six months, she would take various sharp objects, from screws to sandpaper and shove them in my face, stabbing, slicing, and grinding away at my identity. She was actually quite inventive, something I could respect. Eventually, I couldn't even feel it anymore, it just became the only constant thing I had to look forward to. "Hahahaha!," it was a little scary, "hahaha! C'mon, is that the best you got? You didn't even scrape bone this time." The pain became my life, and why not try to enjoy it more than the masochist torturing me? Near the end, I'm pretty sure I had felt all the pain The Plastic Surgeon could deal out. But eventually, every party must end. “I'll admit you're tough for someone who looks so fragile,” at this point, I couldn't even talk, the skin of my face was more like a mask in itself, hanging on by a few threads. "But I'm afraid it's now time for our parting gift,” and that’s when she wheeled out the acid. You would think that your flesh burning, melting back in place would be my wake up call, but I was just happy to feel again. They dropped me off in the bad part of town, in nothing but a blanket and one of their masks to cover myself and keep my face in place. Some people at this point would have given up, no clothes, no face, a family who thinks your most likely dead. I had basically nothing... Except for a plan. “And now, we find ourselves at the end result of that plan,” in the empty, dimly lit restaurant the Blackwell crime family's dinner of twelve was interrupted by an unexpected thirteenth guest. Wearing the most audacious suit he could find: a bright red jacket and neon green pants, and the same mask his kidnappers left him with. His voice was flamboyant and excited The masks solid expression surveyed the room, looking at his captive audience. Every member at the table was bound and gagged, completely at the mercy of the prodigal son returned. “I mean it wasn't a hard leap for me to figure out that it was my own brother who hired The Plastic Surgeon. Who else would have wanted me out of the picture?” he stopped in front of a young man, sitting at the table, with fear in his eyes. “Just admit it,” he said pulling the tape off his brother's mouth. He was breathing heavily, sweat starting to form on his brow, "Alright Antony, I'm sorry-" “Oh wait, It doesn't really matter if you confess or not,” with that he cut the young man's throat, blood falling from his neck and into the young man's dinner as he struggled to breathe, drowning in his own blood. "But the plan doesn't stop there... after those long months in the warehouse, I thought I had gone insane. But then I realized, insanity is just a different form of clarity. And believe me, I am just starting to see things much more clearly. As soon as I figured out it was Romulus I knew I was going to kill him, I just had to figure out where and when. Lucky for me the annual family meeting was coming up, and even though I never attended one, I did all the books, so your "secret" meeting place," he said making air quotes with his hands, still holding the bloody knife, "was always just that old Italian restaurant dad used to take me to." As he talked he walked around the table, "next I needed to hire some muscle, fortunately, the family has no shortage of people they've pissed off." With a snap of his fingers, four men with gas tanks emerged from the shadows. "Now," he said addressing his father at the head of the table, "in a mobster movie, this would be the time that I say that this is just business, nothing personal... but," he lifts his mask to reveal the grotesque, scared, sliced, burned, and melted collection of flesh he had for a face. "This is extremely personal," on his command the men started pouring the gasoline on the members of the family. He pulled a matchbook from his pocket, tossing it from one hand to another, "now dad, I really don't want to do this, like I said... you were always nice to me. The best father I could have asked for," he takes a match from the matchbook. Lighting it, the match reflected off of the plastic, his plastic mask glowing in the firelight, “but this isn’t about me,” he drops the match and the entire table is set ablaze, the muffled screams of the other men echo throughout the room, his father just stared at him, his expression unreadable as he burned, “I’m sorry dad, but something happened in that warehouse. I didn't want this job at first, but the more they tortured me, told me to give it up the more I wanted to hold onto it. So that's what I'm going to do, make your dream come true, bring this family into the future better than it ever was... bu In order to do that I need a fresh start, the old way, your ways nearly destroyed our way of life, so I'm taking all the old pieces of the board. And we both know that the best way to clear the board is the best way to deal with anything... burn it down.


"I'm sorry. I know, I should've turned back miles ago. I just have this almost pathological compulsion to keep going forward. I simply despise having to retrace my steps. I'd rather take the long way around than go backward even a little. You remember when I forgot my bag on that work trip, and rather than drive the 20 minutes home, I opted to buy all new stuff, even a new bag?" He looked at himself briefly in the rearview mirror and nodded. "Thanks for understanding, Norman! You're welcome, Norman," he nodded to himself again and smirked. It was one of the peculiar habits he'd picked up on his many, many solo work trips. When the silence was too stifling or the road too long and empty, he'd sometimes have a little chat with himself to diffuse the tension. Rarely did it work. "This time, maybe I should have gone back," he added with a waiver. He looked out on the long stretch of open road where his car had stopped. Flat and perfectly straight. It faded off into a stifling darkness even his high beams couldn’t reach. Then he glanced in the mirror at the road behind him. It was much darker but just as straight and flat. He thought he could see the faintest speck off in the distance. The little sign catching a bit of moonlight, perhaps? It had gleamed brightly in the headlights from his car. A crisp sheet of white paper tacked to a rotted, wooden post with an arrow and the word help scrawled beneath it. There were others too, many more, posted here and there along these desolate roads he'd been driving. Each scratched out as if written by a child. He shuddered. It had reminded him of a news story he'd read. Arrows painted on the road that all lead to a dead body. A woman was found killed beside her car but there was no sign of anyone else, just a pile of ash beside the body. Police has searched the woods, but found nothing. Rumors spread of cults and cannibals, or creatures in amongst the trees. The thought made his heart race more than he would admit. That was far away, he reasoned, up North in a mountainous area of Vermont. And the arrows were painted on the road, not scrawled on pieces of paper. These signs were not that. But still, it was hard to ignore the similarity. He checked his phone for the hundredth time, wondering if, against all odds, it had found a signal. Of course not. The last time it had registered anything, he'd been following directions off the highway to a gas station marked "temporarily closed," which in his experience meant "forever closed," but he decided to check anyway. Indeed, the place was long gone, even boarded up. It was several miles from the highway so by the time he confirmed his suspicions, he was well and truly off course. He continued forward though, reasoning that there must be a town somewhere in this direction--anything but relenting and turning back. Each mile he drove brought him closer to the point of no return, where if he had finally decided to go back, he would have run out of gas before getting there. He’d given himself no other option, the only way out was through. So he forged on, watching the gas needle slip lower and lower. Over the years, he had driven many rental cars on his trips and found them all to be similar but different. They were all generic, domestic-made sedans in some innocuous color like slate gray or navy blue. The controls were all in relatively the same place. They were equally uncomfortable. But each had some little quirk, like a punchy accelerator or very touchy brakes. This one seemed to guzzle up the end of a tank of gas. Or was it just this place that guzzled up time? This area was broadly called the interior of a state that resided in what was also called the interior of the country, and he thought those descriptions seemed apt. It was landlocked and made up of endless flat planes of farmland stretching for miles in all directions. A patchwork of thousand-acre fields lined up perfectly like massive green tiles on a kitchen floor. There was something uncanny and disorienting about the repetition. The few roads that bisected the fields were miles apart and flanked by sky-high rows of feed corn. It made the drive eerie and suffocating, like traveling down a long, empty hallway. It was an unsettling sensation, being in the open air but so closed in at the same time. Every few miles, he'd reach an intersection and strain his eyes looking for any sign of life, but nothing. Turn after turn and mile after mile, he had gone deeper and deeper into the green abyss as his rental sedan greedily drank up the precious fuel and his phone searched for a connection in vain. Eventually, with little fanfare or ceremony, the car shuddered, lurched, and died. A little light with a gas pump blinked on the dash. The silence closed in around the car to join the dark. "Lucky it's a warm night, huh, Norman? Yes indeed, Norman," he said, looking all around again for any sign of an approaching car. He couldn't decide if he was genuinely hoping to see one or not. He flicked on the hazard lights. They flashed red and yellow, lighting up the rows of corn and making the stalks twist into looming, emaciated figures encircling the car. His mind flashed back to the story about Vermont, and again, his heart began to race. He looked away and tried to calm himself, noticing his hands were also shaking. "It's okay, I'm sure someone will come along. And if not, it will be morning soon enough." He checked his phone again and relented that morning was still a long way off. Norman leaned back in the chair and breathed deeply shutting his eyes. He thought to himself that the chair was more comfortable than he remembered and that his eyes were more tired than he had noticed. Driving on unfamiliar roads was surprisingly exhausting. He never realized it until he was done. It was both painfully monotonous and surprisingly tense. You were always on watch for something, anything. Before he could recognize it was happening, Norman was asleep. He woke abruptly to the sound of screeching metal. The car was brightly lit, and for a moment, Norman thought it was daytime, but he quickly realized it was headlights behind him. They were old square lights spattered with mud. One of them was more dimly lit than the other. They were wide apart and relatively high, probably a truck or a van, he thought. He heard the vehicle door slam shut, and a figure stepped out of the darkness, silhouetted by the light beams. Norman twisted in his seat to look over his shoulder rather than through the mirror. The man was big and walked like he was tired. His shoulders were crooked, and his arms and huge hands hung down like they were heavy and made of stone. Norman stumbled out of the car and spun to face the approaching figure. "Uh, h- hello?" His voice quivered. "Broke down?" A slow, gravelly voice came from the massive silhouette. "Want me to take a look?" "Oh... uh... okay. Thank you." He replied, backing away ever so slightly. The man stepped forward, his face finally being lit enough to see. His skin was lined and weathered, like old cowhide. His hair was short and disheveled. Norman could smell sweat and soil. "I'm, uh, Norman." "Hank." "Hi, Han-" "So, how'd you end up out here?" The large man grumbled. "I - I got off the highway for gas back at exit 4B." "That's the Ryann's place, been closed for years now. Too bad, it was the only spot for gas that side of the valley." "Yeah, I realized that a bit too late." "A bit, indeed. That's something like twenty miles from here." "I kept hoping I'd find a town or something, but..." "Nothing 'round these parts. Just land." He stepped around to the engine. "You gonna pop the hood?" "Oh," Norman flustered, "I just ran out of gas." "Ah, I see. I can help ya with that," the man said as he began lumbering back to his truck. "Well, come on," he added gruffly upon seeing Norman staying back. "Oh, uh, okay," he reluctantly agreed and followed. Hank pulled back a heavy canvas sheet caked in dirt lying across the truck bed. Beneath it was a tangle of metal, wood, and rusted tools. He began rummaging through the heap, huffing and grunting as he did, the tools scratching against the old metal truck. He stopped his search with is back to Norman and asked, "You seen those signs? Out on the roads, with the arrows?" Norman froze. His eyes widened, and his body tensed. "Yes," he barely managed to say. "Strange, huh?" "Yes... strange." They both went silent. Norman's frantic breathing was the only sound. "You know who put them there?" The older man asked darkly. "I believe I do," Norman said in almost a whisper. Hank turned slowly to face the other man, who was standing closer than he had realized. "I did," said Norman as a thin smile crossed his face. The knife glinted once in the light before sinking into Hank's abdomen. Then again, frighteningly fast into his lung and several other places across his torso. Hank swung out at Norman but missed as he collapsed, his breathing ragged and the world going dark around him. He saw Norman's smiling face briefly once more before slipping away into shock. "Job well done, Norman! Why thank you, Norman." He said with an excited waiver in his voice. He took some deep breaths and looked out over the expanse of dark emptiness. So alone in it again. He would give himself a moment to relish this. These trips didn't always prove so fruitful. The right conditions - somewhere remote, dark, and desolate with no phone service - often meant no one stumbled into his traps. His heart was still racing, and his hands still shaking, but he knew he should move quickly now. His signs were still out there directing prey to this spot, and there was always the slightest chance someone else would come before he could leave. That had happened once in Appalachia, but he'd been in a little parking lot off the road then. If the drivers had seen anything, they didn't stop to investigate. That area had been almost too easy. The murder didn't even make it beyond the local paper. He opened the trunk and took out a gas canister, then removed his shirt, splattered with Hank's blood, and tossed it on the road. He gathered some alcohol wipes from his bag, the one he'd bought as a replacement when he'd forgotten his, and wiped his hands and the knife, then his face and hair, dropping the used wipes on his bloody shirt. He returned the knife to the bag and fished out a lighter instead. He quickly refilled the gas tank from the canister, saving the last bit for the pile of bloodied things in the road, which he liberally doused in fuel. He learned early on that the alcohol wipes are quite flammable, so only a good splash was necessary. No need to create a roaring beacon. Norman then ran through his checklist as he donned a fresh shirt. He'll return to the town where he swapped license plates. A bonus to being in a rental is that the make and model are usually surprisingly easy to find a substitute plate someplace inconspicuous. He'd added this as a new precaution with the rise in popularity of ring cams and the like. If he's caught on tape, the plate will match the car but not the driver. Drop the rental off with the night drop box and collect his car from around the block where he parked it, all getting him home by midday. He thought about the signs he posted again. Now that it was complete and they had delivered him Hank, he had to decide whether to leave them or not. He didn't need to worry about fingerprints or DNA; they were too hard to gather from paper, plus his weren't on file. It will undoubtedly change the game if they connect them back to his work in Vermont or any of the other places, but that could be fun. He knew this was how they get caught, the others, but there was still something thrilling about that possibility. His heart raced again like it did whenever he thought about Vermont. His first national story. Regardless, he'll need to follow the signs back to the highway. He can decide as he goes. He had a thought then, leaving them might mean more press coverage. That would be nice. Ok, they would stay. He was giddy at the thought. He wished he could wait a bit longer and savor the moment, but he must start working on his next trip. He lit his clothes and the wipes on fire before returning the lighter to the bag and zipping it shut again. He closed the trunk and turned to look back at Hank once more. "Thanks, Hank." Back in the car, he pulled away from the side of the road and back into the dark as he made an unfamiliar maneuver for him, a U-turn. "It doesn't count as turning back when the job is done. Right, Norman? Absolutely right, Norman." His drive to the highway was uneventful. He passed only one car along the way, several miles and several turns from Hank. He had kept his high beams on, a tactic he liked to use to blind the driver so they would be forced to look away as they passed. He had a fleeting thought: Maybe he should go back? The moment the thought entered his head, though, he knew he would not. If that driver found the body, and that was a big if, he would be long gone. No turning back. ---------- The other driver cursed as she struggled to keep her car on the road during the onslaught of blinding light. She was tired and in a bad mood. She hated night shifts at the hospital and just wanted to be home. The spots in her eyes had just cleared when she reached her next turn. She squinted. Across the intersection was a piece of paper pointing in the other direction. It read help. She looked down the road where it signaled and saw nothing. She turned for home. She had done enough today. Then she braked and cursed again but at herself this time. And she turned back. She followed the sign. It lead her to another and then another and finally to a horror. There was so much blood. She froze for a minute. Not because of the blood but because of what might have done it. Was it still there? She suddenly recognized the truck and then the man. She leaped from the car and rushed out. "Hank!?! Hank!" She looked for the source of all the blood, but it was too dark. What happened to you?" He was so cold--too cold. She didn't expect a response. She scrambled back to her feet, needing to get her trauma kit from the car, when she screamed. Something had grabbed her leg. It was Hank, he wasn't dead.


The museum consisted of only four rooms, although I got the impression the building was an exhibit itself. The wooden floor and flagstone roof had clearly been replaced a number of times. But the walls were built with tools I had never seen; thick stone towers that seemed to bear hundreds of years of erosion. In the first room, we found odd trinkets of times before. There was nothing especially intriguing, and many were similar to the artefacts in the Citadel on Kadear Coalfields. As we entered the second room, the space opened up to a large hall. On all four walls were pictures; some ranging several metres across down to those that were the size of my hand. Each image was an exact likeness, as if you were merely seeing the sight with your own eyes. The largest display showed a group of young men and women gathered round a table sharing drinks from a bottle. The image was so large that each face was as big as my torso. I was struck by how beautiful they were; the soft skin of their cheeks, their silky long hair, and the symmetry of their smile. Never before had I seen anyone beam so widely, with so much joy, in such a simple moment. To the right of the smiling people, large text read ‘Choose the best.’ The next image was smaller, the whole picture some 30 centimetres tall and printed on thin glossy paper. There was a family in a home. Two children sat in a large kitchen, as an older woman - presumably their mother - dotingly put two plates in front of them, filled with delicious-looking cooked food; a pile of red-colored beans most prominently displayed. Underneath the image, a caption ran “For everyone”. I was still studying the picture when Alessia grabbed me by the arm. “Ferdinand, you’re not going to believe this.” “What?” “The next room,” she responded, pulling me behind her. I followed her through the archway and immediately understood why she had fetched me. What I saw, can only be described as a miracle. The far wall had been painted white. However, light was being cast on it to create moving images. The pictures were as real as the images in the previous room, but these moved. Somehow, I was watching the old world. The images were being cast by a small contraption on a table in the middle of the room. The device had a glass circle on the front that shone light out to project the images. As I got closer I realized it was also producing sound. It was faint, but if I sat down near the small box, I could make out voices - voices of the people on the wall. What we were watching seemed to be a comedic play. After each joke I could hear raucous laughter from an unseen audience. However, while the content may have been fiction, it gave me the perfect opportunity to view what the world used to be like. They had large expansive homes filled with lush furnishings. In the background windows looked over a city from an impossible height. Some seemed to work at desks like I used to, others worked serving people food and drinks. However, whatever their status in life, they seemed without worry. They were still beautiful, with white smiling teeth, and tanned, flawless skin. They were happy in their work, happy in their homes, content in every aspect of their lives. They were in heaven. I don’t entirely know how long I stayed, crouched on the floor. However, I believe a good forty or so minutes passed with us both transfixed by the sight before we were interrupted. “I thought you might enjoy this.” Turning, I found Rachel standing a couple of metres away, admiring the images on the wall. “How...?” I hesitated, lost for a working sentence. I took a deep breath and recomposed my words. “I knew things like this existed in the old world, but how did you get this working?” Rachel smiled. “Luck. Little more. A few generations back some people found a whole metal box of the devices. It took us a while to realize how they worked. We only have a few different recordings. But now we play a disc every day. A reminder of how good the world once was.” I turned back to the wall. “It really was.” “There are dates at the end. These images are from the beginning of the 21st century.” “Why don’t you share this more widely?” Alessia asked, prying herself away from the screen. “You could be the richest island around with this.” “Some things are more important than riches. This museum is who we are, what we aspire to.” Rachel looked at the screen, taking a deep breath, as if she were inhaling the utopia into her lungs. “The archipelago we live in now,” Rachel continued. “There are people out there starving. There’s fighting, murder, war. There are self-righteous islanders, condemning those around them; or islands where one set of people are made to toil while others live in luxury. We made that happen. It didn’t used to be like that. That’s what this museum is for. To remind us of a time without problems, when we were better people, when sadness and hate were fiction. To make us aspire to be something better.” She said the words forcefully, as if they were from a commandment more powerful than herself. “It’s a great aspiration,” I replied. “We may not have the technology. But we can aim to be as good. And one day the technology will come again,” Rachel took one last look at the pictures on the wall. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some issues to attend to. But please stay and enjoy yourselves.” \ We watched the marvel for another hour or so. By the time we left, the sun had set, and speckles of white stars were beginning to fill the sky. We begun the walk back in silence. My mind was elsewhere, recalling and embedding that world we had seen. I assumed Alessia was in a similar state, but as we began to leave the village, Alessia quickened the pace. I skipped a couple of paces to catch up to her. “Don’t look around. Because I know you’ll want to look. So don’t, ” she said through clenched teeth. “But those people from earlier, they’re still following us.” “Maybe it’s time we talked to them.” “If they wanted to talk to us, they’d have done so already. You want to talk to them, you’re going to have to get to them. “And how do we do that?” “Pincer them,” Alessia said, making an action of her two fingers coming together at a point. “I’ll walk back to the village. If they follow you, you turn and run and lead them straight to me. If they follow me, other way round.” “And when they reach me?” “Grab hold of them and don’t let go?” “And if they are armed, or fight me?” “Then let go,” she shrugged. “Good luck.” Alessia turned and started heading back up the path. As she did, a woman stopped in her tracks, and conspicuously walked down a small path into the forest. It was the same woman I had seen following us earlier. Now I knew where she was. I continued down the path toward the beach. To my left I could see an old stone wall that blocked out the forest beyond. To my right, the trees encroached on the path, and long branches loomed over me, cutting out what little light the stars provided. I looked briefly over my shoulder. I could only make out her outline in the darkness, but it was clear I was being followed. My pace began to slow, hoping she might keep her own, and reduce the distance between us. If I was to win a foot race, I had to make the gap as small as possible. I readied my body, priming myself for the chase. I counted to three, turned, and ran. The shadow ceased its movement, frozen to the spot for a brief second, before they turned and tried to flee. However, their brief hesitation had reduced the distance between us, and now they were maybe only seven or eight metres away. They veered to the right and ran up the old brick wall along the side of the path. For a brief moment, I lost my concentration in their agility, as they began running along the top of the wall away from me. Then, a stone gave way. It tumbled towards the path as the woman’s ankle buckled, and she was sent down the other side. She let out a yelp as she fell. There was a second’s silence, then a thud as she landed on the forest floor. I could hear her body sliding, and then a shriek so raw I could feel my heart sink and my torso tense in response. The yell gave way to a quieter, but still loud moan, occasionally broken by a stuttered sob. I climbed up the wall. On the other side was a steep bank that dropped down several metres. As I lowered myself on the other side, I could immediately feel my feet slip on the blanket of leaves and loose soil. Grabbing onto a branch for stability, I began slowly making my way down the bank, towards the baying. As I arrived on the valley floor and approached the woman, I could begin to make out more than her outline. My heart sank further. Our stalker was a girl, probably no older than 16. There was visceral pain in her scrunched, frightened face. At her right arm, there was an unnatural bend between the elbow and wrist, a sharp angle jolting off. The girl kept moving to look at it before turning her head violently away and sobbing. “Ferdinand?” Alessia called out from the path. “I’m down here,” I replied. “Come, quickly.” I waited as Alessia climbed the wall and slowly started making her way down the bank. “I think she’s broken her arm,” I called out. “Well help her,” Alessia exhaled and she slid down the leaves. I was stuck, unable to act, but unable to turn my eyes away from the girl lying in pain. I had seen terrible things, I had seen death. But somehow, seeing somebody - a child no less - suffer, was so much worse. My frozen body was interrupted as Alessia pushed past me and crouched down by the girl. “It’s definitely broken. We’ll need to make a splint,” she said. I watched on, waiting. Alessia turned to me with the eyes of a predator unleashed. “Are you really this fucking useless?” She yelled. “She’s broken her arm. We need to make a splint. We need branches, straight ones, about three centremetres thick. We’re in a forest. Think you can manage getting sticks in a forest?” Broken from my trance, I began searching the dark wooden floor as Alessia tended to the girl. “Hey, it’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you, we’re gonna fix this. I’ve seen plenty of breaks before, and they all turned out fine. Now try to stay calm, and trust me, okay?” The girl whimpered in nervous affirmation. Alessia took out a knife and grabbed the base of her own shirt. She cut out a long stretch of fabric from around her abdomen and placed it to one side. Then she cut up from the bottom of the girl’s trousers to her knee, on both legs, giving her three pieces of long fabric. “Now this next bit, for a moment, is gonna really hurt, okay? I’m sorry. But afterwards, as soon as it’s done, the pain will go down alot, I promise.” Alessia soothed. Once more the girl whimpered her consent. Alessia began slowly moving the arm back to a straight position. The girl’s cries grew louder. She tried to speak, but the words were interrupted by animalistic howls of pain. Alessia completed the task. “There. I’m done.” The girl quietened. “That a little better?” I returned with the two branches. Alessia took them. One was a good length, but as she inspected the other she rolled her eyes, before quickly snapping it in two so it was the same length as the girl’s forearm. With her tongue pinched between her teeth, Alessia slowly wrapped the fabric around the girl’s arm and the sticks, keeping the broken limb locked in place. With the arm set, the girl was silent for the first time. “You’re going to need to clean the wound too,” Alessia said. “I have some supplies on my boat. You can come there now, and we’ll take care of you. And then maybe in the morning you can explain why you were following us. But we’re not going to hurt you. You are safe. We can take you wherever you need to go tomorrow. That alright?” “Okay,” the girl replied. The girl gingerly stood up and began walking. “It’ll be about a half hour’s walk to the boat. That okay?” Alessia eyed up the steep slope ahead of us. “Yeah. I got this,” the girl replied through a sniff. “My name’s Robin, by the way.


“Just say no.” If only I had taken the warning more seriously, I’d be in college now. That’s what people say looking back, if only I had known, if I could go back, if only... I loved him like a brother, I utterly trusted him, I knew him better than anyone ... at least that’s what I thought. I met Carl the summer between fourth and fifth grade. My family moved into the house next to where he had always lived. Our mothers were becoming acquainted over the fence when he invited me to jump on his trampoline. I was a year older than him, but he still topped me by two inches. He liked chocolate cake, I preferred carrot cake, I read novels, he fancied comic books. We both favoured comedies when we went to the movies and we loved climbing trees, but he climbed faster and higher than me. When September rolled around, we were inseparable. We compared scars on our scraped knees, we chased frogs in the creek that flowed past our houses, on rainy days we built forts with run-down sheets and clothespins. To his friends he introduced me as his little sister even though I was older. Every summer I spent two weeks with Carl and his family at their cabin in the mountains. At the bottom of the stone stairs was a large lake in which we fished for bass and caught bullfrogs. In the winter, when we visited Grandma in Florida, Carl would accompany us for a few days then fly back home, tanned and smelling of coconut oil. His dad showed us how to play backgammon, and my mom used to play Clue with us because two people can’t play. It was on his shoulders that I rested my head to mourn my first heartbreak. “The bastard left me three days after he tore my hymen!” I confessed, laughing falsely through my tears. Carl denied it but I’m sure he took a swing at the guy and gave him the black eye. When Carl had an essay to write for his English class, I would always spruce it up the night before. I introduced him to my friends as my little brother even if at 17 he was a foot taller than me. A week before I left for college, my parents threw me a “Good luck” party to which the girls from my softball team, Carl and the boys from his football team were invited. My dad cooked burgers on the BBQ, his dad was the DJ. Dad loved barbecuing, marinating meats and then watching them while chatting with guests, a beer in one hand and a spatula in the other. Our friends were divided into more or less three groups; some were in the pool playing Marco Polo, others playing volleyball, but most of them were just sitting on the terrace discussing their studies, the first season’s football game and the various outings over the weekend. Bopping heads and flailing arms, that’s what I saw from the tree house at the top of the big oak. I had taken refuge there because while I enjoyed the company of people, I also needed my space after socializing so much. The hatch lifted and Carl’s smiling face popped up. “What are you doing here?” “I needed to recharge my batteries.” “Will you make room for me in your bubble?” “You know very well that you’re always welcomed in my bubble.” Since I’ve known him, Carl had never laughed at my quirks and I loved him all the more for it. I knew our friends thought that I was weird, but he respected my need to stay away sometimes. He sat next to me and we watched the party unfold in our backyards. After a while, he bumped my shoulder playfully. “Jeff asked me to give you his surprise if I found you.” He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a sachet containing two capsules. I frown. Not that we’re angels or anything but Carl and I avoided drugs out of respect for our respective sport, so I didn’t quite understand what he was offering me. He must have read the confusion on my face because he immediately explained himself. “It’s not what you think, well, maybe it is, but I’m asking you to trust me. It’s not some junk street drug. It’s not gonna damage your goddess body.” He winks conspiratorially at me. “OK, what is it then?” “It’s ... um... Jeff calls it Spirit Liberator . I tried it once with him. It was the most amazing experience I have ever had. It gives the impression ... no, no ... you ... it’s tough to explain ... you have to live it to understand. It’s ... soothing but at the same time ... exhilarating. You travel at high speed through a tunnel of lights and then after ... you let yourself get carried where your mind takes you. You have some kind of out-of-body experience and you visit other dimensional worlds and... I ... saw my brother.” Breathless, he went silent. Carl rarely talks about his late brother. Too painful a subject to share, even with me. I respected his silence as I tried to take in what he just told me. Do I really want to travel in a tunnel of light? Get out of my body? It scared me a little. It seemed a lot like dying ... this experience. His voice shook off my stupor. “It gives you the ability to radically transform your outlook on everything. It brings a profound change, a different perception of yourself, and a new understanding of reality...” “Wow! I didn’t know you were so ... esoteric. I don’t really want to elevate myself or change my self-perception... I like my perception and I feel good in my body.” “It barely lasts an hour. And I swear you’ll feel wonderful afterwards. Come on, trust me.” I looked him straight in the eye. I picked one of the pills and brought it quietly to my mouth. I hesitated then downed it with a sip of beer. At worst, I convinced myself, we’ll be “back” in an hour. I passed him the bottle, and he too swallowed the capsule. I laid down next to him, he held my hand and we awaited the effects . I wanted to tell him that his surprise wasn’t working at all, but my mouth refused to open and my hand wouldn’t squeeze his. I tried to get up, yet my body was shaking like a leaf. I was terrified, then I felt an intense feeling of letting go , as if I was taking off like in a plane, but in slow motion. I saw the dancing wings of a bee showing me the way. I thought how weird it was for a bee to be flying at night but then I realised I was bathing in a soft, warm, enveloping light and all was well. I was flying above the trees, the school, and the lake breathing in pumpkin spice flavored air. At that precise moment, I had no fear, no worries. I was one with nature, the human race, and the universe. My heart was beating to the rhythm of humanity’s heartbeat. For the first time I felt such joy, pure and total. All my doubts dispelled, my insecurities abated, I was there, exactly where I needed to be, whole and free. Suddenly I was pulled back, I spun around and found myself staring back at me. I knew right away something was wrong. “Carl, what are you doing here? YOU’RE IN MY BODY” He kept quiet. “Carl!” “I don’t know what happened. Our threads got tangled up and I found myself in your body... I think” When he got up and left with my body, my heart sank. I tried to reason with him, I got mad, I cried, I begged him, nothing worked. He deemed my body shell comfortable, “It’s very soft and cozy in you”. I complained to my mom, she didn’t believe me. When I insisted, she told his mother about it and I was threatened with interning if I kept messing around. So Carl started college in my place and I’m in twelfth grade again. Yep. Well, I should concentrate on the game otherwise the huge linebacker, charging toward me like a bull, will kill me.


Grand Central station. 12:02pm. Her train is in ten minutes. She’s waiting on the platform of her train to Boston. She’s worried and anxious. She’s biting her lips. She doesn’t see her lover. He should already be there. Her train is in nine minutes. Now in eight minutes. She’s passionately in love with him. She doesn’t know if their relationship will last long... She needed passion. Now she has it. It’s been two months the both of them. She’s feeling great. She loves the smell of his skin, the sensation when she touches him. She gets on the train. She checks if he isn't already inside, in case she has missed him. She gets out. He wasn’t in the coach. Seven minutes. She remembers the first time they kissed. She wanted his mouth for three years. They have been hitting on each other for three years. Quite a long time in fact. She smiles at this thought. Now she has him in her life and she’s blissful. He wasn’t ready when they met the first time. They did the date thing for two months and then he put an end to it. He broke up just a few months earlier and it was too soon for him to forge a new bond. That’s what he said at least. Six minutes. She’s out of her memories and notices he’s not there yet and the train is leaving soon. She comes back to the departure lounge. He’s not there either. On her way back to the platform she thinks maybe he had a traffic issue in the subway... After this disappointment, she moved on in her life. But somehow he stayed in her acquaintance. He never left her fantasies. He was aloof and not open to her. She was distant too. She read in his eyes he wanted her very badly sometimes but never say a word about it. Maybe she overinterpreted. Five minutes. The train makes its engine roar. She’s getting more and more anxious about him. He’s pretty on time normally. She goes back to the main room of the station and almost runs to the information point just under the huge clock. She asks the train employee if there has been trouble in the subway. She says the traffic is normal as far as she knows. She’s biting her lips once again. She was cold with him. Sometimes she had arguments with him. They met a few times at different events organized by a mutual acquaintance. But one day his position at work changed and they became colleagues. She couldn’t resist. She had a boyfriend. She loved him very deeply. She just had no passion for him. She rapidly falls in love strongly with her new colleague. Four minutes. She’s really scared something might have happened to him. She decides to look for a phone booth. She dials his work number. It rings. It’s still ringing. She gets the switchboard. She hangs up and dials his home number. It rings. It’s still ringing. No one answers. She hangs up the handset sadly. Three minutes. She runs back to the right platform. He’s the passionate love of her life, she knows it for a long time. She told her boyfriend a couple of months ago it was over. He was sorrowful. Full of tears and inconsolable. She tried to cuddle him. She tried to appease him. He rejected her. Never contacted her again. She understood it. She was still in love with him. She left for her impassioned lover. He knew it was for him. He discovered months ago her story with this man wasn’t over. She told him about it but despite what she was telling herself it was vivid. The last month her couple was chaotic due to this love growing inside of her for another man. Her boyfriend felt it and got pissed off at her much more easily. Two minutes. She takes her seat on the train. She looks through the train window and feels gloomy and wistful. She’s desperate. She senses the tears rolling down her cheek. One minute. She feels her mind crack. She knows it’s over. The train is going away without him next to her. The empty seat is too painful to look at. She can’t stop crying. She knows her feelings are far more than passion. She needs him. She needs the way he looks at her, teases her, his smile, his jokes, his body... she needs him completely. Suddenly she has the weird impression it was a dream and she just wake up. She stops crying. She tries to get rational. She checks her purse, she has a note from her latter boyfriend. It’s written: “Love, take care in Boston”. She doesn’t know if it’s from this morning or a message from months ago. It’s not her first time in Boston. She goes there for work sometimes. She senses her stomach gets her back to what she thinks might be the reality. Her inside is tearing her apart. But she’s getting more and more doubtful about what’s real and what’s not. She’s lost and she’s going to Boston. She doesn’t even know why... He’s next to his phone. At home. He knows it’s her. He can’t pick up the phone. After her phone call, he calls his work. He asks if he has a message. The secretary tells him she called. It was her earlier. He paces up and down in his condo. He’s smoking nervously. His cigarette is barely over, he’s already striking another match to light the new one. The phone rings once again. He knows it’s not her, the train is gone. It’s Cecilia. His best friend. He tells her he didn’t manage to leave with her. Cecilia isn’t surprised. She seems glad. She has good news too. Cecilia says she’s free now. He’s afraid of what it means. She’s single. His heart bumps fast in his chest. He can’t say a word. He’s speechless. He’s been waiting for this for so long. He hangs up. He thinks to her. He loves her. He loves Cecilia too. He broke up before because he cherished her. He’s lost. And he doesn’t know if he isn’t making the greatest mistake of his life.


My grandfather was born in England in 1926. In 1939, World War II broke out. Like many English children of his generation, he was sent by his parents to live in Canada to escape the Blitz. When he returned to his home country he barely recognized it. England had been ravaged by the war and he felt as though there was nothing for him there, so he left. He went back across the Atlantic, but this time to Philadelphia. It was there that he met my grandmother. Before she met my grandfather, my grandmother had been previously married to a US Air Force bomber pilot who was stationed in England during the war. While in England, he began an affair with another woman that caused the disintegration of his marriage to my grandmother. She eventually met my grandfather, they got married, and they gave birth to my mother who eventually met my father and gave birth to me. I use to joke to people that if it weren’t for Hitler starting the war then I would never have been born. The other day, I told this to a friend who told me that if it weren’t for every single event in the history of the universe, from the Big Bang till the precise moment when a single sperm from my father entered a single egg from my mother, then I would never have been born. It’s comforting to know that I no longer have to exclusively thank Hitler for my existence.


A writer is cleaning out her basement and is sorting through some of her old boxes. She comes across a few boxes labeled “College Items” and opens one of the boxes. Underneath a few folders, she comes across an item in a plastic cover. She does not recognize it at first, but once she removes the cover, she sees it is the typewriter she used in college. She is not sure what to do with it. It is too old to sell, but she also knows that it has some value, and should not be thrown away. Underneath the typewriter, is a package of typing paper and typing supplies. She decides to check and see whether or not the typewriter still works. She places it on a small table located in the basement and plugs the cord into a nearby outlet. She pulls up a chair, takes a piece of typing paper out of the package and carefully winds it around the roller in the typewriter, straightens and adjusts it before placing the thin metal cartridge on top to secure the paper in place. She turns on the typewriter and types a few sentences. She can’t believe that it still works. She is suddenly reminded of what it is like to type at a typewriter, and its unique benefits. She likes that you have to push the “Return” key at the end of the line to move to the line below. She likes hearing the noise of the keys as they stamp letters onto the page and the sound the typewriter makes as it moves to the next line. She also remembers that it is best not to type too quickly in case you make a mistake. It is easier to make corrections using the white correction tape ribbon by hitting the backspace key rather than using corrector fluid or an eraser. The drawbacks do not seem like much of an obstacle and she decides to write her next assignment using the typewriter. It makes her feel more like a writer and she looks forward to writing her next story. She makes a mental note that she will not be able to hit the “Send” key to send it in, and will need to make sure she allows enough time to mail it or fax it to the recipient. For the story, she first writes it out on a pad of paper. She then types up the story using the typewriter. She makes sure to type slowing and avoid making a lot of mistakes. After she finishes it, she realizes that she did not take leave any space to allow for visual images. She knows they will not accept the article without them. She takes out a couple of pieces of typing paper and draws a box where they should be located on each piece of paper using a ruler. She retypes the story, leaving space around the boxes so she can attach the pictures. She finishes typing the story, adds the pictures, and mails it in. After a few days, the editor calls to let her know that they received the story, and asks her if she can send an electronic copy so they can make a few edits. The writer explains that she typed the story using her old typewriter. The editor says that they can have someone retype the short story, but asks her to send any images she wants included as an electronic copy. For the next assignment, she once again uses the typewriter to write the story, affixes the pictures to it, mails it in, and sends a copy of the images to include via e-mail. The typewriter becomes a lucky charm. By now, she has become accustomed to using the typewriter, but it has some drawbacks compared to using a computer when it comes to editing and sending documents. For longer assignments, she finds it is better to type them on a computer because they tend to require a few drafts before they are finalized. She has also moved the typewriter up from the basement and keeps it on her desk. One day a friend visits and brings along her children. They notice the typewriter and ask her about it. She shows them how to use it and they are immediately drawn to it. They like how you have to roll a piece of paper onto it, straighten and align it, before replacing the thin metal cartridge on top to hold it in place. They take turns hitting the “X” key until it reaches the end of the line, wait to hear the sound of the “ping”, before they hit the “Return” key to advance the typewriter to the next line. They caution each other not to type too fast so the keys don’t jam and experiment with the white correction tape. A few weeks later, her friend drops the children off for a few hours. They are going to stay with the writer for the day while the friend goes to a few appointments she has scheduled. The children once again ask if they can play with the typewriter. They spend the day playing, “News Reporter”. They create three roles and rotate them. There is a writer, editor, and newscaster. The writer writes the story, the editor then reads the story and suggests some edits. The writer then re-types the story, and the editor hands the story to the newscaster. The newscaster reads the story holding a spatula they use for a microphone. While the writer and editor are working on the story, the newscaster dresses up using some old dresses and accessories the writer has stored in the basement. It becomes one of their favorite games. Meanwhile, the writer continues to use the typewriter to write some of her stories, and is using it to write a book. She likes that it forces her to think about what she is going to write in advance. She has learned it is better to write things out first on a piece of paper. She has also learned to appreciate all the little things and efficiency that a computer provides. The typewriter continues to become her lucky charm as she figures it is because it forces her to spend more time writing the story and makes her a better editor to avoid typos, grammar mistakes, and re-types. A couple of months later, when her friend has a birthday party for one of her children, the writer gives her a typewriter as a birthday present and they all play “News Reporter”. They add a few more roles so everyone can play including another writer and newscaster, cameraman, and reviewer. The typewriter that was at first unrecognizable has found a new beginning, and seems to have a place as a both a work tool and fun activity for both adults and children. The writer's latest discovery as she is cleaning out the basement is finding a play cash register and makes a note that she should bring it to her friend’s children the next time she visits. She knows they will most likely find a good use for it.


"Let me in Charlie..." "I won't. You can't tell me what to do." I young boy lays on the ground in a fetal position trying to block out the voice in his head. "Surelly, you don't mean that Charlie. I've been there for you when no one else was." He whispered in to his ear. "That deadbeat of a dad of yours skipped town and left you to rot. And your mother hasn't even the time to prepare you anything to eat during the day. She doesn't even know you are home, Charlie." "Shut up!" Charlie yelled. His alarm clock began to ring. Reluctantly he climbed onto his futon and pretend to sleep for a few moments. Reynald snickering in the back of his mind. He didn't remember when it started. Reynad had been there since he was young. But he wasn't always like this. He was happy before. They played together once. He was imaginative, carefree and joyful. But after everything in his life started to turn up side down. Well Reynald started to grow more and more sinister. Now his voice was so loud he could hardly hear his own thoughts. I'm going to be late, he thought. Charlie made a point to note this was his own mind talking. He didn't know if he was crazy or not. But he was suspecting people would see it that way for sure. Charlie briskly went through his morning routine brushing up his teeth, emptying his bladder and bowels. Making some french toast and pouring some orange juice from the fridge, shutting it with the back of his heel. The stuff your average high school student would do. Just with a commentator on the side. "You know what would look better on you Charlie, a pair of fangs." "Why don't you eat something with a little meat on it. Bacon? Everyone loves a bit of bacon." "Your going to break that fridge door one day and then your Mom'll finally notice you. Is that what you are going for. A good ol' beating. Are you some sort of sadist." "Shuddup, shuddup, shuddup." It was hard to ignore Reynald, but he had to. Acknowledging anything he had to say just made it worst. Running outside he caught the school bus as it was coming in. "Hey Charlie the Chink!" He was greeted by Bosko, the resident bully and his goons. His friends jeering him on. Inwardly, Charlie laughed to himself. Name calling was nothing compared to what Reynald put him through on a daily basis. "Let me rip his teeth out and swallow his tongue, Charlie. You know you want to punch in that fat face of his. Bosko the Bully - how stereotypical can you get." "No Reynald, I won't do that." Charlie whispered to himself fighting down his clenched fist. Charlie was struggling to grab control. Just as he was about to slip into a blind rage a voice perked his ears. "Are you okay, Charlie." It was Joanna the only other Chinese student on the bus. They both somehow ended up in this small town in the middle of america. Famous for their tornadoes and dust storms. "Say yes Charlie." Reynald coaxed. "Yes, um yes I'm okay." Charlie stammered. "Now massage her breasts." Reynald suggested offhandedly. "No!" He shouted loudly against Reynald. Startling some of the nearby students. Embarrassed he quickly added. "I mean no, I have a bit of a cold. And ain't feeling well." "Oh sorry to hear that," Joanna said a bit confused. Not wanting to make it any more awkward than it was. Charlie moved his way to the back. Dropped his bag and looked out the window. This was going to be another long day. He sat alone, he ate alone, he studied alone. And went home on the bus. That was the only time he interacted with the other students in his class. If you could call that interaction. He had no friends. He was even surprised Joanna knew his name. But he then remembered Bosko made sure everyone did. The end of last quarter rang the bell. Everyone was piling out of Mrs. Winston's Intro to Physics class. Charlie didn't like to take the same crowded hallways everyone else did. He knew a short cut that ran out from an emergency door at the bottom of a side staircase. As he pushed opened the door, he was suddenly jostled from behind. His backpack taken away from him. "Well what do we have here." Bosko and two of his friends were rummaging through his bag. Until they found his sketch books. Charlie was a big anime fan and he drew all sorts of characters. "You one of them hint-eh lovers aren't you, you sick fuck." "Here, Anthony." Flicking a lighter over to one of his goons. "Show how lit, his shit is." Bosko picked Charlie up off the ground. "Here Roxanne, hold on to him." He tossed him her way. She grabbed him and got him into a Full Nelson. Roxanne was actually a girl Charlie had a crush on when he was younger. "Yah that's because you have a thing for pain..." Reynald added. Where were you!? Charlie exclaimed vehemently through his thoughts. "I told you, let me take control today. But nooooo you wanted to be a big boy. This is what big boy's get now you have to walk home you stupid idiot." As much as he hated being called a idiot. Reynald did have a point. "Aren't you three going to miss the bus." Charlie pointed out. Bosko realizing this was true quickly came in hard. Not exactly what Charlie was hoping for. He combo'd a left, right body punch straight into an uppercut. Which left Charlie dazed. "Hahaha, perfect Charlie. Now you're bleeding. You realize how much I could've helped right there." Reynald was ecstatic. Roxanne threw him to the ground as his book was burning beside the trash can. Everything in Charlie wanted to reach to save his books. It was everything to him. His Dad was an animator. But everything ached. He was tired of this life. What did it matter, his father left him. Looking up into the sky, droplets began to fall from the clouds above. Starting as drizzle then turning into great big ol' droplets. The sizzling of water dousing his burning book kept him awake. He wanted to sleep forever. He had a bully in his mind, a bully at school and no one to turn to. The world was one big bully. All he had was his sketch books and flip books. But now those were gone too. "So you are just going to lay there like a wuss huh, Charlie." Charlie nodded. Reynald snarled. "Grab your mom's gun shoot everyone in the school. Kill Bosko, Kill Anthony, Kill Roxanne, Kill the Bus Driver who never stopped them from harassing you. Kill everyone." Charlie exhaled slowly. He tried to remember Reynald as he once was. A more innocent ethereal creature. The past few months was like a constant struggle through life. He had to fight down Reynald's lustful comments of girls he barely knew. The boiling anger and hate that was in him that he had to seal. All these things Reynald wanted to unleash... But you know what. Charlie finally realized something. He may feel powerless morning, noon and night. But Reynald. Well Reynald had no power at all. Without answering, Charlie picked up his bag. And trudged through the rain. Made that four hour walk home. Got home to an empty house. Made himself dinner and went to bed. "Tomorrow is going to be a different day." He told himself. "Is that right? Don't kid yourself. Everyday is the same ol' shit." Boasted Reynald. "Not this time... This time, Reynald, I choose how to live my life. And I choose to be happy."


She was just sitting up there. If it weren’t for the picture of her, no one would’ve known she would be here at all, but the people nicknamed her as the girl on the edge of the crane. Her feet dangling below her, her right hand positioned behind her back on the stainless steel and her left, stretched out in front of her. That’s how this girl was sitting on the edge of the crane, hundreds of metres above the ground. Judging from her outfit, you would assume that she was a schoolgirl. At least when taken into consideration, her plaid skirt and her uniform style shirt. If a closer look was taken, you would realise that she is in fact a young woman, no younger than 18. Her ironed skirt and white-ish shirt, was just a part of her outfit. Her twin pony tails, were flying all around her body, bending to the force of the wind. The altitude was high enough for the wind to pick up speed and yet high enough for the wind to loose its power. Otherwise her hair wouldn’t have been the only thing flying around. Normally people would assume anyone sitting that close on the edge of death, would have the intention of jumping. And yet she had this look, in her eyes, of childlike interest. Her left arm reaching out into the dark sky, towards something only she could see. It was a clear night and the stars could be seen, perhaps she too saw them behind her spread out fingers. Perhaps she was reaching out, to form the illusion that she was holding a star, pinched in between her fingertips. Below her, you could see the city, as it shimmered under the cover of darkness. You could see the apartment lights with tenants living inside them, the cars slowly whizzing by, leaving either red or white stripes depending on their direction and the shops still open at that time, luring in customers with their colourful signs and displays. She hadn't come to die, no. But perhaps she had come seeking for comfort in a place where no other rational human would sit. She knew one misstep was all it took for her to end her life prematurely. But she wasn't nervous about that at all, in fact there weren’t any signs of fear or even anxiety in her eyes. Perhaps she had already made up her mind that she wasn't going to fall, or she had some tricks up her sleeves. Speaking of, they were too long and too dark and yet it was obvious that they were trying to conceal something. Perhaps some wounds or some scars, maybe even her thin fragile body itself. No matter what it was, she never uncovered them, granted that the only time we saw her, was in this still picture. It must have been freezing up there but apart from that, no one knew how this woman got up there. Some think she must have climbed the crane, without anyone else knowing or seeing. And yet nobody saw or reported her and prior to the photos discovery, no one had even known she had existed at all. It’s likely she didn’t make any rash movements or loud sounds, but to be seen or heard at this height would’ve had taken a tremendous amount of effort. Too much for random passerbys to spot her. People below her weren’t interested in the night sky, like she was. They were much more interested in getting to their destination, too busy to appreciate their surroundings or their achievements they already amassed. Perhaps she was the embodiment of all that people have lost over the years, all that people have longed for in this world, that was taken too soon by a world too focused on money and survival. If this photo was taken at the wrong time or the camera had never been placed there and if no one ever knew she was there, would she have existed at all? Why would she, out of all places, sit at the edge of the crane in utter silence, with no light source other than the dim shimmer of the stars? Adding to the mystery, no one knows how she got down there. The only evidence that she had existed at all, came from a still frame shot of a camera, which had been increasingly forgotten over the years, mounted to the top of the crane. It was one of many cameras mounted to the absurdly costly piece of equipment. Initially meant to record any evidence of malpractice but was deemed useless, since all it took, were shots of the sky and the city from the back of the crane. Furthermore, it was one of those really old cameras, which by some miracle still took a shot every minute after all these years. One still frame shot of a girl who mysteriously appeared and disappeared, sitting at the edge of the crane. One, was all it took for the world to be piqued in interest, as to who the woman was. Interestingly, the camera had enough quality to capture the girls expressions and clothes, but other than that, it was too dark to make out anything else, except the glowing lights of a city succumbing to the night. She could have been some otherworldly being, visiting us for a short amount of time, or perhaps she did this on a dare and had some way to climb up and down without being noticed, or the camera was so old that it was suddenly mixing up its records with previous shots. No one knew who the girl was, her picture was published in all the newspapers and media outlets, everyone trying to figure out who and where she was. But no answers were found. Anything that did turn up, was proven to be fake, made up by others searching for attention and validation. After a while everything died down and most people forgot the existence of the mysterious girl on the crane. Perhaps it would have been for the best. After all something this mysterious, maybe would be better off staying mysterious. But some people theorize that she wasn't pinching the stars with her fingers, as some people would do, some claim that she was reaching out to something. Something that was the reason why she and her body was illuminated, while the rest of the crane wasn't. Some had even saturated the photo to show the existence of a glowing orb, which apparently was floating just a bit away from her hand. But no one ever took those claims seriously. After all, glowing orbs, flying thousands of metres above the ground didn't exist. And with that, the woman couldn’t have existed at all. After all if no one is there to witness her existing, in the world we’re in, she would cease to exist. So this mysterious girl, at the edge of the crane, was forgotten about, from the rest of the world. And those who did remember her, nicknamed her: The girl on the edge of the crane.


Winter was the only season when I would see her, every year in December on the day of the winter solstice. I met her first when I was only ten. Sitting in the park on a cold winter day as the snow fell like ash, clinging to the ground like a child clings to their mother. My father had let me go on a walk that day on my own. He needed space to think, he used to be a writer for a not so well known magazine, and tended to work in complete silence. So that’s how I found myself making a small snow man in the park outside our apartment. There wasn’t enough snowfall to make my creation any taller than my knees. I gave it two small rocks for eyes and twigs for hands, I looked back in awe at my masterful creation. “I like him” Said a voice from behind me, I turned around to see a tall figure with galaxy eyes and pale white skin. Long strands of golden hair falling from her head down to her shoulders. She had pointed eyes and small antlers like a deer coming from the top of her head. She stood taller than my father almost twice as tall with arms that were just a little too long for her body. She leaned down close to the snowman, taking a small icicle she held in her hand and placed it on the area that would be his nose. The figure smiled and asked “What is his name?” “Icey, Icey the snowman” I said with a big grin on my face “A fitting name for such an icy fellow” the words almost felt warm like the heat of a wood stove after a long wintry day. “Whats your name?” I asked looking up at the tall figure “Oh, I do not have one of those anymore, I have a gift for your father if you think you could bring it to him” said the figure. She handed me a bundle of snapdragons that she held in her other hand. They smelled sweet and looked as if they had just been picked, The figured looked down and smiled again at me. The snow picked up, and the figure walked back into the roaring winter. As I turned to watch her go off another figure appeared in the distance. It was my father in his winter cloths, snow boots and long red scarf. He rushed over to me. “Sweetheart, what are you doing out here, I told you to come back before it got dark” “Father look look, the nice lady with the antlers gave me this just for you” I held out the bundle of snap dragons to my father. He held them in his hand for a moment and began to silently shed tears. “Whats wrong father?” I asked, holding my hand out to him My father got down and embraced me “nothing at all sweetie, Im just finally happy you got to meet her” Me and my father meet my mother every winter, on the day of the winter solicit.


Here it is again, the piss end of golden hour. The sun hovers four degrees below the horizon, soon to break free from the relative brightness of civil twilight. Do you know the difference between all the kinds of half-darkness? I do. I can tell you. That might just take my mind off this thing I need to do, but my body is like a soft, untamed animal, stopped dead in its tracks in the snow like in concrete. There’s the civil, like I just said, in case you missed it. In that kind of light, blood appears a dark maroon colour, nearly brown, diarrhoea of the veins. I look down, swallow. The spots start at my feet, holding themselves on the surface of the snow, and then, as they grow heavier towards the house, carving deeper and deeper grooves in the whiteness. So she didn’t bleed too heavily to begin with, but as she stumbled forward, the boot stamps grow larger, more elongated; she’d started dragging her feet. Then another blow from behind, and a fallen snow angel with broken wings. I see the head and belly wounds clearly, the top one bright and fresh, the bottom one, well, not so much. I swallow. She’s losing it now. The rude impact of the ground, cushioned only lightly by the ankle-deep snow, jolts the liquids in her, like a glass full of water on a stormy ship. When I was a child, I could remember everything, whether it had happened or not. Now, I only remember things that have happened to other people. The second type of twilight is nautical. The darkness progresses as the sun falls, falls further, from six to twelve degrees below the line of sight, which in this flat rigid world is everywhere I turn. It’s called nautical because the stars are twinkly enough for sailors to be able to make them out, but the horizon remains so stark the heavenly bodies can be pitted against it for directions. I have begun my ascent to the house. She didn’t walk up the stairs, she crawled. She’d given up holding onto her belly halfway up. I can tell because of the smell, and the volume, the dripping. Dear god, or whatever else there might be, because why would this place even need a god if so little is alive to watch over, and that which is can be deleted so easily, with such primitive tools. The knife is in my pocket, a kitchen knife with a plastic handle. When I was young, I had memories of murders so gruesome they could make a grown man faint in an instant. But now, I only remember real things, things right in front of my eyes that burn images on the insides of the eyelids. Finally, before the night falls, there’s astronomical twilight. The sky lights up in a million fibre-optic blips, messages from the past blinking their way down to Earth. I have the key to the house, and so I turn the key in the lock. In these dark conditions, blood becomes black, like coca-cola, but not so fizzy, and definitely not as sweet, so perhaps this is a bad comparison. I hope she died on the other side of the door, crawled like a fox into her hole and gave up there, so that this it it, no more mess, just in the hall. Lo and behold, she did. I often hope they’d died quickly and stayed put, and the lord if such shall be my judge will forgive me, for this is a small offense: that hope I cannot shake. And sometimes I think it’s a merciful hope, a hope to shorten suffering, mine and theirs. I grope for the light switch on the wall with the hand that hadn’t held the knife. It lay far, far from the red trail leading to the house. No wonder they couldn’t find it. But a blood hound, a recollector of foreign memories, like me, knows exactly where to look, where in the frenzy of footsteps to find the DNA they will need, they will want to establish facts and punish perpetrators . The light is on, I swallow. No vomiting. It pushes the clean-up too far outside of nature, a mass of things that shouldn’t be seen outside of the body, suddenly all mixed together. A human offal hotpot. Dry heaving, that’s fine, no lunch, better safe than sorry. It has been exactly fifteen 24-hour increments -- not days, mind you, they’re no days -- since the sun last rose around here. It teases all the way into golden hour, dawning, dawning, and down, back again like a ball that hadn’t been kicked hard enough to roll through the goal marker of the horizon. These words, dawn and dusk and twilight , I can see how they can mean beautiful things to people. How they can mark time in a way that makes sense to god’s creatures, those who live by the rhythm of light and dark. How they can bring drama, hope, joy, melancholy. But to us here, creatures with no god, creatures that shouldn’t even be here, because we’re not designed for this, those words mean little, because they never happen truly, never fully realise themselves in this long, long night. Twenty more increments to go before the fiery ball tries hard enough for us to see. I have come, I have seen, I will conquer. I’ll start on the inside, as always, and work my way back out. The porch light I find the switch for turns out far too dim, so I will bring a spotlight from my car, designed for these occasions specifically, for the polar night’s many twilights. I’ve put on my bodysuit already, but forgot the mask in the car. Hence the retching, from the smell. I’ll get my brushes, my sprays, my paper. When people ask me what it’s like, they think it’s scientific, and therefore also magical, a blend of mastery and mystery. But how could it possibly be glamorous to clean, I think though I don’t ask them. I’d hate to appear rude. On dates, at first I tell girls I’m a cleaner, just to test them, and their faces drop. But if I tell the truth and nothing but the truth, the full works, blood and sweat, sometimes tears, they light up, like I’m a live episode of a true crime series. That must be very exciting, to see all these places up close . Tomorrow, I will return the knife to the police. I’ll apologise to them with all the words I have prepared: I’d forgotten to wear my gloves when I picked it up, I will be sorry for contaminating the evidence, I will promise to call next time without touching, and they’ll shake their heads. There are some things I won’t mention, things I knew about her, things that aren’t relevant now because she’s been annulled, things that aren’t relevant because what has once happened cannot unhappen. When I was young, I used to remember things that didn’t happen at all, but now I know how to make them.