TRAPPED We had barely moved in thirty minutes. I realized, of course, that I would be in the same frustrating circumstance if I did not have a passenger, but there she was. Like me, Barbara was on the board of the Community Center which met once a month. Barbara was a single (divorced) woman about my age, with two grown daughters away at college. She worked as an administrative assistant in a real estate company. I approached these meetings like I do my teeth cleanings, necessary but kind of a drag and a time suck. But being on the board was my attempt to “give something back”. At each meeting, Barbara would ask for a ride home. She would take the train from her job to the meeting, and since I lived near her it wasn’t out of my way. This was no hardship, except for the fact that we had little in common, and in fact, we tended to have opposing viewpoints on many board issues. The 30-minute ride to our neighborhood seemed a lot longer as we would struggle to make conversation. This meeting ran longer (and was more tedious) than usual. A lot of resolutions and voting and discussions, punctuated by a few people on the board so completely in love with the sound of their own voices that they insisted on reiterating points someone else had already made. Mercifully, the meeting came to an end two and a half hours after it had begun. There being no windows in the boardroom, we were all shocked when we got to the front door to see that in the past two-plus hours, a storm had dumped a foot of snow on the ground, and it continued to fall at an alarming rate. Shit, I thought, after a whole day of work and an interminable board meeting, this is just what I need to cap my day.Barbara helped me clean off the car, which was something of a futile gesture given how fast the snow was coming down. I had determined to stay off the side roads which I knew would be more treacherous. When we got on the main roads, however, it appeared that everyone else had the same thought and we were stuck inching along the parkway until we stopped. What made matters worse for me is that extreme weather always turns me into a white-knuckle driver. I decided not to mention that fact to Barbara. No sense in both of us being anxious, not to mention the fact that, well, it’s embarrassing. We quickly ran out of traffic conversation, as we had no other route options, and our plight was evident. “So, that was some meeting,” I volunteered, having no idea what I meant by that. “If you mean it was excruciatingly boring, even by our usual standards, I agree.” “I suppose we should be glad that we didn’t have to put out any fires, like harassment complaints.” “You’re right. I think we should hope for a continuation of boring meetings.” Having nothing more to say about the meeting we went right to the tried and true. “Did not see this storm coming,” I volunteered. “I don’t think anyone did”, Barbara countered. Not being meteorologists, that concluded the obligatory weather discussion portion of our drive. We had barely gone a mile. We were both tired and hungry, and I was holding on to the steering wheel so tightly that I could have been stopping the blood circulating to my wrists. Then, Barbara said something totally unexpected. “You know Mike, you’ve been driving me home for over a year. Our paths have crossed at other meetings and outside of where you work, I know nothing about you. You could be an axe murderer for all I know.” “You’re right, we don’t know anything about each other. But I should tell you that I didn’t qualify for the axe murderer slot on the board. I think Mrs. Hernandez got that.” Mrs. Hernandez, the 85-year-old community activist, is most likely to be nominated for sainthood. “Well now that I’m fairly certain that there isn’t an axe underneath your seat, why don’t you tell me something that people in your professional circles don’t know. And then I’ll do the same. What do you think?” The traffic started moving, though not very quickly. Just like that, I forgot about my weather anxiety as I thought about how much I felt like revealing to someone who was slightly more than a stranger. There was something about being in this barely moving car, with snow coming down hard that made me feel like I was in a protective cocoon. “Well, I’m currently single after being in a relationship for four years. I thought we’d settle down...” “But...” “But she found someone else.” “Sorry to hear that. You had no idea?” “Not only didn’t I have an idea, but I was not aware that-how can I say this- that her gender preference was more fluid than I realized.” “You mean...” “She fell in love with a woman.” “Wow.” “Yeah, didn’t see that coming at all.” “Does it make it worse that it was a woman?” “You know, it really doesn’t. Being dumped is being dumped.” And the floodgates opened. I was no longer thinking about the snow. I hadn’t told anyone the full story, fearing other people’s judgement not only of me but of Anne, my ex. As hurt as I was, I didn’t want to hear anyone speak harshly of her. I barely had my foot on the gas as we continued to be enveloped in white. I replayed the whole relationship for Barbara-well, the highlights, anyway. I felt somehow safe enough to describe how the relationship evolved and devolved so she could get the whole picture of my sadness. I loved Anne. I just couldn’t get angry. You love who you love. I took a breath and said, “That was probably more than you bargained for. It was certainly more than I expected to say.” “Well, I’m glad you did”, Barbara replied. “Okay, your turn.” “I’m not sure if what I’ve got to say will make this better or worse for you”. “Hard to see how it could be worse.” As we got further, we picked up a bit of speed, but I was still very cautious as the snow continued to fall. “I have something I’ve been keeping from everyone. I’ve been very vague about my separation from my husband. I let everyone think he was just disenchanted with our relationship. Some people speculated he had someone else, and I didn’t discourage that line of thinking. The reality is, he caught me in bed with a woman.” I was stunned and could only manage, “Wow, that’s big.” I think I always knew that I was gay, but I tamped down those feelings and went through the motions, to have, what I thought was a “normal” life. Then I met Sophia, and something just got...I don’t know...activated, and my life and how I saw myself just changed completely. I have to tell you though, it’s very freeing. I’ve come out at work and to my friends.” “Well, that all sounds, good “, I answered. “Yes, except I haven’t told my daughters. My husband is mortified by the whole thing. He’d rather they think he cheated on me than that their mother is a lesbian. I’m going to tell them next week. That is if I can screw up the courage.” “You sound pretty brave to me.” All of a sudden, we found ourselves in front of Barbara’s apartment building. It seemed like we had gotten there by magic. “Well, we made it.” “Yeah, this is where I get off. Thanks for listening” “You too, and good luck next week.” As I drove away, I was sure we’d never have another boring ride home.


It is the beginning of everything and he awakens like a drowning person breaching the surface with a toehold on the shore. what is a person what is water what is breathing what is shore But all of it is already inside his consciousness. And then: “Come find me, David,” they say, and the longing is like a supernova expanding inside his being, and he is too small to contain it all, and this is not in his consciousness and he is afraid. what is david what is fear WHAT IS THAT WHAT IS THAT WHAT IS THAT And then he is gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” she says, and one light brown hand is on David’s pale, pale arm and the other hand rests on her round belly. David must have been wool-gathering again. He shakes his head, rattling the beads in his hair. “Remember what what is?” She smiles at him like a secret, teeth white in a dark, heart-shaped face. Her eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You are right here.” David frowns and covers her hand with his own. “I remained here for you when my crew sailed for home. I will always remember my duty to you.” The smile fades away. Her eyes widen, then crinkle into pain, and she falls to the floor, hands clutching her belly, blood pooling from between her legs. “Remember,” she gasps out, eyes desperate on his. “What comes after you are afraid.” David’s hands are tingling and he is nauseous with terror. When the healer arrives, she says there is nothing she can do, that his seed has poisoned the woman, that he has planted a demon in her womb. Afterward, David looks at the body of his lover and he looks at the tiny rag of lifeless human flesh -- not a demon, just a lost soul that took its mother with it -- still attached by its cord, and then he walks out into the wilderness and he is gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” he says, and one gloved hand is on David’s blue-sleeved arm and the other holds his bicorne hat against his red-coated chest. David must have been strategizing again. He shakes his head, feeling his queue brush the back of his neck. “Remember what what is?” He smiles at David like a secret, lips rosy pink in a porcelain pale face. His eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You are right here.” David frowns and covers his hand with his own. “You sheltered me here when I was left for dead by my men. I will always remember my debt to you.” The smile fades away. Behind them, the hovel door bursts open with a cracking noise and soldiers stream into the small room, muskets pointed at David and at him, ordering them outside. “Remember,” he murmurs, eyes tracing David’s face. “What comes after you are afraid.” David’s veins are full of snowmelt and he can’t catch a full breath. When the officer approaches, he says there is nothing he can do, that David’s presence has doomed the man, that he has condemned him as a traitor for harboring the enemy. Afterward, David looks at the body of his lover -- not a traitor, just a man trying to do good while on a different side of a terrible war -- spilling so much red against new-fallen snow, and then he looks up at his executioners and he is gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” she says, and one dark brown hand is on David’s sunburned arm and the other grips the horn-rimmed glasses on a chain around her neck. David must have been working through the facts again. He shakes his head, catching his fedora as it slips sideways. “Remember what what is?” She smiles at David like a secret, lips painted ruby in a mahogany face. Her eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You are right here.” David frowns in confusion and covers her hand with his own. “You came to me for help getting the news out to stop these riots and lynchings. I will always remember how frightened I am for you.” The smile tips on one side, inviting him into the secret with her. Glass shatters as something comes through the front window of the office and hits her on the side of the head. She falls to the floor and David runs to her, dropping to her side as something else, something flaming, volleys in and lights the curtains up. He cannot hear the mob shouts outside over the sound of the screaming in his own head. “Remember,” she demands, eyes intent on David’s face. “What comes after you are afraid. You’re so much closer than you’ve ever been.” David’s heart is pounding and the tears rolling down his cheeks begin to evaporate in the blazing heat. When the fire fighters arrive, there is nothing they can do. They look at the burned bodies of the lovers -- doing no harm to anyone, just an interracial couple trying to find a way through the world -- curled together, and pronounce them gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” he asks, and one hand is on David’s bare upper arm and the other takes a colorful cocktail from the bartender. David must have been distracted by all of the people dancing in the club. He shakes his head, feeling his single earring bounce against his jaw. “Remember what what is?” He smiles at David like a secret, teeth gleaming in a tanned, glowing face. His glitter-lidded eyes are green and gold as as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You --” David wraps an arm around his waist and scoops him in, pressing a kiss to the side of his head -- “are right here. Why do I need to remember when I have you right now?” The smile wavers. The music changes to something with a heavy rattling bass. Someone screams and David smiles for a moment, thinking it is enthusiastic joy for the new song. Then multiple people are screaming, and the bass noise misses a beat and resumes in a rapid burst and David recognizes it as gunfire. “Get down!” he yells to the bartenders, and leaps the counter, dragging his lover after him and shoving him down to the floor. His hands are slick and he goes to wipe them on his tight jeans, thinking he put them down in a spilled drink, but they’re red with blood. He can’t hear the gunfire or screaming anymore over the sound of the ringing in his ears. “Remember,” his lover whispers, eyes luminous in the half-dark under the countertop. “What comes after you are afraid. Do you remember?” David is shaking but he yanks his tank top off and folds it quickly into a makeshift tourniquet. “Shut up talking like that. You’re going to be fine, okay?” He wraps the shirt bandage around his lover’s arm above the gushing wound, finding a mixing spoon someone had dropped on the floor nearby and using it to tighten the shirt until his lover winces and cries out. “Here,” someone else says quietly, and David turns to find one of the bartenders handing him a towel. “It’s clean.” David thanks him and presses the cloth against the wound. His lover is still gazing at him, lips going blue and cheeks paling under his makeup even as David watches, but his eyes still vibrant. David stares into them and for a moment he is so scared, so scared, there’s no room for anything else. There are whole past lives inside of those eyes, and he gasps in a desperate breath and he remembers . “I love you,” he chokes out. “I’ve found you, and I remember. Oh, God, fear was the only thing I knew for a very long time. But I've always loved you, from the beginning of everything.” His lover smiles, and it is like a supernova expanding inside his being, and even though David is still too small to contain it, he isn’t afraid anymore.


Taking notes from tuition, Rukmoni were walking in the road. Sky becoming dark around her. Wind were touching her silky hair and bright check . Listening songs and walking alone took her in other world. When she come back to home, it was 8 o'clock. She freshed an up and went to the chicken. Her father Mr. Roy will come with his friend's family to have dinner . Rukmoni had to assist her mother in making dinner. After cooking, Rukmoni's mother suggested her to wear saree. Around 10 pm her father reached home with his friend's family. Mr. Roy's friend had two sons Sujoy and Bijoy. After dinner the family stayed there. Rukmoni woke up early in the morning. She went for a walk in a nearby park. There Rajdeep also come. Rajdeep was a college student. He was in final year. He saw Rukmoni and come to talk to her. Telling his name, Rajdeep gave his to shake with her. Rukmoni also shaked hand and introduced herself. Rajdeep said that he was doing B.A. Hearing that Rukmoni told him that she was doing M.A. Again they shaked hand and wished good bye each other. Having launch, Mr. Roy and his friend discussed about Sujoy and Rukmoni's marriage. Rukmoni was unknown about it. Sujoy was well settled with their family business. And Bijoy was studying. Sujoy liked Rukmoni. Before going to home, Sujoy came to Rukmoni's room. He knocked the door and came into the room. Sujoy asked what was Rukmoni's perspective on marriage. As she was unknown, she just smiled and didn't say anything. Sujoy was getting more close to her and tried to kiss but failed. Few week later, went a cafe shop to fill up her H. S exam form. But the cafe shop was off. So she had to go another cafe shop. The cafe shop were busy with another guy. As she looked at him she just shocked. She wanted to returned from the cafe shop but couldn't. Accidentally it was last date of form fill up and there were no other cafe shop opened. As the guy went Rajdeep looked at Rukmoni. She seemed nervous. That day when Rajdeep saw Rukmoni in the park, he crushed on her. But when he come to know that she was elder to him. He was quite. And today he was seeing her second time at his cafe shop. Actually Rukmoni didn't want to close with anyone. she was very beautiful. She didn't want come to any relationship. That's why she use to ignored boys by telling lies. If anybody proposed her she replied that she had in a serious relationship with her boyfriend and she will marry him. But today her lies got catched by Rajdeep. Rajdeep looked dashing. His deep eyes made him more attractive. Looking around the shop, Rukmoni told him to fill up her form. Rajdeep could say something. But thought she would feel embarrassed. He didn't want that. Rukmoni didn't explain anything, returned home. After dinner Rukmoni checked her phone. Ten missed call and many messages from unknown number. She saved the number and searched it on what's app. She was shocked, seeing the profile name and picture. It was Jaydeep's number. She called back. Joydeep started flatting with her. She hanged out the call. Morning,afternoon, evening, night all time Joydeep called her and sent massages. Finally Rukmoni agreed to meet him in the park. Joydeep came to the park with full preparation. He planned to propose her. Joydeep reached early there. After 10 minutes waiting, she came. She was talking on phone with Sujoy. She cut her call and stand in front of Joydeep. Joydeep started talking on casual things. They walked together around the park. It was morning time. There were few people in the park. Finally Joydeep proposed her in a filmy way. Rukmoni calmly told him about Sujoy and rejected his proposal. Rukmoni talked with Sujoy friendly. Mr. Roy fixed her daughter's engagement date after one week. And marriage date wiil discuss after her H.S exam. Before two days of engagement, Rukmoni was very sad. She cried all over the night. There was a note book where she wrote her love story with sad ending. Before two years ago, she met with Raj. When she saw him she fall in love with him. Raj was her youngest teacher. After few weeks she proposed Raj. Raj denied her proposal and told her that she was liked her sister. Friends made her joke too. After two years of this incident Rukmoni couldn't forgot him. Her point of view was changed. Whom she loved didn't understand her, because of she was a student, a teenager. From that time she started ignore love matters and kept her away from love. Many handsome boys gave her proposal but she rejected. Mr. Roy and Mrs. Roy was quite busy. Rukmoni was their only child. They invited friends, relatives and neighbors. The engagement was took place peacefully. Sujoy took care of her. And loved her also madly. Every week they used to meet . Sujoy gave her many gifts, roses, teady bear etc. They walk together hand in hand,come more close to each other. Rukmoni was very happy, a soft corner was made for him. She liked his smile, cute face and dashing personality . She learnt driving from Sujoy. And when Sujoy come to their home, she used to make meal for him. Sujoy made a good bonding with Rukmoni's parents. Mr. Roy and Mrs. Roy loved him as their own son. As day pass, Rukmoni's exam date come. She prepared well and clear his H.S with good marks. Her marriage date also fixed after her exam. Rukmoni wished to higher studies. Sujoy's family was agreed with it. Rukmoni will continuous her studies but after getting married. Rukmoni was happy with that. After getting married Rukmoni came to a knew home. But family were known to her. Bijoy gifted them a honeymoon package. They went the place for their honeymoon. It was a very beautiful place. They started their married life. They enjoyed a lot and loved each other madly. And they returned home Rukmoni admitted in a college for her higher study. She didn't get pregnant. It was their mutual understanding. They will plan for kids later.


God Remembers Cindy God asks the Man if he deserves to go to Hell. “Such a forward question.” Contemplated the Man. God urges him, “What did you do with my family’s gifts?” “Was a forgiven sin something I should’ve indulged?” Asked the Man. God fell silent. “Were the church’s totems redeemable?” The Man pressed. For he was beginning to realize, out of all the great things he had learned and accomplished, he did not lead a worthy life. Sure he had money and relished in the 20 year old women *well* into his later years. But what did he do to help his fellow man? Was there any occasional selfless acts he procured like the priests at the edge of his street? He occasionally helped people of a poor status, but only when cameras were keeping a well placed eye. “Do I deserve to go to Hell? No.” Said the Man hesitantly. He was ready to give whatever excuses if certain question’s came about. “Why do you think so?” Asked God. “I never killed anybody, and I never intentionally hurt a soul.” God looked at the Man and grimaced, for he knew the lies that would spill from his mouth. God motioned towards the boundless ocean they were standing upon. Two of Gods other creations rose from the water. The Man reacted with immediate execration; he screamed for he was in hysterics. These beings were of course, God’s angels. The angel closest to the man had several (8) eyes and they remained open since the dawn of the earth. She had neither legs or a head, instead there was a gaping hole in her chest where her eyes were held. The angels arms were nonexistent, yet the angel had hands. These hands were held in a palm side up position almost like she was expecting to be rewarded. The other angel had a buck’s head along with its antlers. Except there was no flesh, a prominent skeleton sat on his shoulders. There were two endless yellow pools where the eyes should have been, they were almost beautiful to look at. He would have been completely mesmerized had he not noticed the rest of his body. He had a long jaundiced body that ejected pools of black tar with vigor. He seemed to be breathing the tar back into his body. Everything about this angel was hypnotizing to the Man and the coldness in his chest grew with magnitude. They never looked away from the Man, neither did they react to his hysterics “Do not be afraid. These are my children, just as you are.” Stated God. God remembered a time, when the Man mentioned he read the Bible. The Man mentioned it at an office party, not fully aware the woman he was saying it to was catholic and had actually read the Bible. “What did you think about the angel’s description given by Daniel in Daniel 10:5-6?” God laughed to himself remembering how honest Cindy was to the Word of God. When it came to her religion, she had no reservations on the sound bites of fools. God’s head lowered in regret. “Take him from these gates.” He instructed to the angels. The Man began to beg, for he knew where we was being taken to. Each angel took a leg and the man fell through the water. God sat there motionless remembering all the times the Man committed a cardinal sin. This was a punishment the man deserved. The Man’s lungs filled with water, only now did he realize the water was abnormally dark. His eyes burned when they came into contact with the water. Lightning flashed continuously under the vast ocean. The Man realized the water was filled with other beings, watching the man. He gasped for air, allowing more water to seep in. They started to gain speed. Suddenly the water got warmer. *”This is it,”* he thought to himself *”I can feel us getting closer to Hell.”* he looked out towards the sea one more time. All he saw was a massive blue Iris peering back at him. He came upon the reason why the water was so tepid. **There was a monster with a mass big enough to give off its own heat to fully encapsulate the Man.** The Man couldn’t remember when he pissed his pants. He began to wonder why he hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen. The Man began to work on a bigger idea: if he is dead, and if he can’t be put to sleep, then he will be fully conscious for whatever happens in Hell.


I have relived this day a thousand times, and it always starts the same way: with the hiss of the coffee machine piercing the silence. At 5.45AM in summer the kitchen was already light. Since returning to work after maternity leave, I’d been getting up increasingly earlier each morning, in an attempt to grab a moment of stillness before the day began and everyone else’s needs started pulling at me. Sun filtered through the curtains, illuminating the living room and the debris left from our children sweeping through. Beside the couch was Thomas’s play mat with the colored balls hanging motionless. There were the shoes kicked in a corner by my stepson, the script my stepdaughter had been learning piled on the coffee table. Down the hallway in the bedrooms, they were all quiet still. Greg in the last moment of sleep before his alarm went off at 6.15AM. Our room was dark and breezy with blackout curtains and a standing fan aimed at the bed. Opposite us was Ethan’s room, his floor a sea of electric cords trailing to his phone and TV and Xbox and laptop. “What color do you want your room painted?” I had asked him, when we moved in here four years ago. He was twelve then, and I wanted him to feel like it was a good thing his dad was remarrying. “Black,” he said, without hesitation. I had hesitated. Sometimes I wondered if my own child would be such an uncomplicated person one day. I half wanted him to barge through life the same confident way his brother did, half dreaded the thought of a son who discussed nothing more complex than sports games and You Tube video’s. I had selected a slate gray instead, unable to bring myself to cover the walls of my new home in black paint. Upon seeing it, Ethan looked straight at the queen-sized bed and big screen TV and grinned. “Cool,” he said, and as far as I knew he was happy. Charlotte, my stepdaughter, had the smallest room. Her choice. She was an anxious child even then at nine and I had given her first pick of the three children’s bedrooms, back before Thomas was even thought of, hoping to help her feel comfortable. “This one, it’s so cozy,” she’d said, hugging herself as she stood in the little room which overlooked the garden. Her color of choice was a soft hazy purple. I’d hung curtains printed with stars and a light shade strung with glass beads which reflected the sun. If I wasn’t an adult with a husband I was expected to share with, I’d have wanted that room too. And then in the room beside ours, my baby in his cot, sleeping beneath his mobile of fabric clouds. My baby. It still seemed unreal sometimes. He was seven months old and I was thirty-nine. For years I didn’t want a baby until one day I did. “I might not even be able to get pregnant anymore,” I had told Greg. Two months later I was in my bathroom, staring at a test. Relief filling me, as if I had just escaped a tsunami or a volcano, outrunning nature. I had imagined it would never happen for me, this most every day of things. I added sugar to my coffee and stirred it in. My phone beeped on the bench. I glanced down at it and saw the reminder popped up. Charlotte rehearsal 7.45AM I had been wary when she joined the Drama Club at school, secretly worried she would suffer stage fright at the last minute, but it turned out pretending to be another person was easier for her than being herself. Up on stage she shone. The big end of year show coming up involved rehearsal every morning before school that week, as well as two evenings. We had her alternate weeks, each Friday evening she moved between us and her mother and stepfather. Ethan used to do the same, but the week Thomas was born he’d moved in full time with us, after an argument with his stepfather. It wasn’t the baby homecoming I’d imagined, with Greg pacing around outside on phone calls to his ex-wife, but I’d figured Ethan would cool off and go back to the normal routine. It hadn’t happened. He told me he was sick of moving back and forward, and he was sick of his stepfather bossing him around. Bossing him around was something I’d never done, instead walking a line somewhere between fun big sister and caring aunt. It was the reason I’d always gotten on well with him. It was also the reason I felt I couldn’t tell him to pick his shit up when he left it lying around. I swiped away the reminder and the next popped up. Conference today. Venue: Golf Club. I pulled up the schedule on my phone and ran over it, even though I could have quoted it in my sleep, and possibly had some nights. The PA who was organizing it had quit the week I came back from leave, and I’d been roped into taking over. Before I had finished my coffee, a wail came from Thomas’s room. He was pulling himself up on the bars of his cot, and when he saw me, his face scrunched up in a smile, the pure kind of love no one else had ever shown me. “Hi, Tommy, hey sweetie.” I picked him up and pressed my face into his neck. Each morning, when I stood with him in my arms, it felt like my whole life had been building up to this, just to be here for this moment. In the kitchen I held Thomas on one hip and watched the microwave as his bottle warmed. I never realized how much of life with children would be spent watching the clock. Waiting for something to start or finish or be ready. Greg walked out, hair damp from the shower. “Morning,” he said. He sat beside me at the table and scooted his chair close to kiss the baby and then me. For a quiet minute we sat together, our son between us. I had worried Greg might not find our own baby special, having already been through it twice, but he’d filmed our sons first smiles as eagerly as he watched Ethan shooting hoops or Charlotte singing on stage. “It’s not like I love each kid less than the one before,” he’d said. But I was his second wife, and maybe that was why it played on my mind sometimes. Charlotte appeared next. She dropped into a chair and gazed down at her phone. “Rehearsal has been moved, it’s starting at 7.30AM now,” she said. “Can you drop her?” Greg asked me, getting himself a coffee. “Charlotte, is your brother up?” “Yeah, he’s in the shower,” she said, leaning over to tickle Thomas’s chin as I put him down in the highchair beside her. I’d worried she and Ethan would be jealous of the baby, or simply not interested, but they both loved him. Charlotte in the same way she loved playing with her dolls not so long ago, Ethan in a protective yet slightly distant way. “Is he alright?” he would ask me, if the baby coughed or whimpered. I spooned pureed apples into a bowl and wrapped a bib around Thomas’s neck. He felt warm as my hand brushed him and I paused, touched his cheek, his forehead. “He feels hot. Greg, do you think he looks flushed?” “He’s fine,” Greg said, without looking. Greg often told me he worried less than me because Thomas was his third baby, and after the first you realize they're built to survive. Sometimes though, I wondered if there was something in our genetic code which meant males only noticed the bigger things. The way I knew Ethan would probably jump in front of a speeding car for his baby brother, but Charlotte was the one who would notice if he pulled his hat off while we were out. Ethan came out half dressed, pulling his t shirt over his shoulders. Greg tousled his wet hair as he passed, even though Ethan stood about two inches taller than him. I’d always loved how much he loved his children. It was what made thoughts of a baby of our own start creeping into my head, when I watched him with them. Ethan’s eyes met mine as he passed me on the way to the fridge. “Hi, Sara,” he greeted me, like he always did. But there was a question in him too, in the way he glanced at me again. Two days before, I’d arrived home after picking Thomas up early from daycare and walked out to the back garden to find him and two of his friends smoking a joint. “Uh, hey,” Ethan had said, casually stubbing the joint out. “Didn’t think you’d be home yet.” “Clearly not,” I said. And then we stood in silence, neither knowing what to say. I still hadn’t told Greg, and it was weighing on me. And on Ethan too, I knew. But there was always something else happening we needed to talk about. Mostly, I hated the thought of how disappointed he’d be. “Alright, kid, you want a ride?” Greg asked Ethan. He nodded, mumbled something around a mouthful of food. I watched them leave the house together. I’d always known, since I first met Ethan when he was only ten years old, that the day would come he’d want to live with his dad. “You ready in five?” I asked Charlotte, shoving plates into the dishwasher. “I’ve got to get across town after I drop you.” My phone was vibrating in my pocket. I pulled it out, turned the dishwasher on. A message from the speaker I’d organized to say her flight was delayed. “Shit, damn,” I said, wiping the baby’s face with a cloth before hoisting him out. The carefully constructed day ahead teetered. I ran over the schedule in my head, wondering what I could shuffle around. “Here,” Charlotte said, waving the nappy bag at me as we headed out. The car already felt warm in the dim interior of the garage. I strapped Thomas into his seat and put my phone in its holder. “I’m so nervous,” Charlotte said. “I don’t even know my lines yet.” She twisted her skirt in her hands. She got like this every time she had a show coming up. One night we had to pull over on the way there because she kept thinking she was going to throw up. “You’ll be fine, you always are,” I said, hitting my manager’s number and putting the phone on speaker. I pulled out into our street, still quiet, and turned toward the main road where traffic was building up. By the time I dropped Charlotte at school and headed for Thomas’s daycare, I’d already rearranged the schedule. My manager would go first, our delayed speaker would take his spot before lunch. I already felt calmer, the way everything slotted smoothly back in to a new order. No one would even notice how smoothly it all went, they would only know if there was a hitch; an empty slot, a late lunch, a cold coffee urn. My phone rang again as I headed down the motorway, away from the city. I glanced down at the number as I answered, the phone still in its holder. “Hello, Sara? It’s Nicola. Can we talk?” The voice of my husband’s ex-wife bounced around my car. I could picture her as she spoke. She was as tall as Greg, always perfectly dressed, and I was slightly intimidated by her in many ways. Maybe that was why I had wanted to have a baby. Because otherwise, she would share something with him in a way I never could. “Yeah, but I’m driving right now,” I said. “It’s about Ethan,” she said. I was suspicious yet curious. Usually, anything to do with their children was discussed between her and Greg. “Ok, sure,” I said. It occurred to me she must have found out about the pot smoking and I felt a surge of regret at not telling Greg already. A deep part of me aware I hadn’t because I felt like Ethan already soaked up so much of his time and attention. She sighed into the phone, sounding irritated, as if I'd already given the wrong answer. “I need to sort out this situation with Ethan. He can’t just avoid coming to his own mother’s house. I have to meet him at a café it I want to see him, it’s ridiculous.” “I know, he just thinks it’s best if he avoids Mark for now.” “For now,” she repeated. “He’s avoided him for seven months. He's like his father, never lets anything go. I want him to come around for dinner this weekend, so we can all sit down and talk.” I turned off down the road which led to the golf club. Cars and houses quickly gave way to flat grassy fields and rows of trees. “Have you spoken to Greg?” I asked her. “I don’t really get in the middle of -“ “Oh, stop,” she said. “My son lives with you. Don’t pretend you’re not in the middle of everything.” “But I’m not his mother,” I said, because I wanted to reassure her. Realising then that she had something to fear too. “I can’t tell him what to do.” I turned off the speaker and picked up the phone as I pulled into the carpark. The golf club stretched ahead of me, long and low. Trees towered behind it, creating a shaded garden area where we could take our breaks. “Exactly, you’re not his mother, that’s why you might be able to actually convince him of something,” Nicola said. “I can’t even get him to take his shoes to his room.” I parked away from the trees. When I was here looking at the venue, I parked underneath them and came out to a car spotted with bird poo. “I know Greg’s not going to be any help with this,” Nicola said. I got out the car with the phone against my ear still, thinking of the night Ethan turned up at our house. He’d ran through the rain and was soaked and shaking with cold and indignation. “I’m not ever going back there,” he said. Greg had snapped into action, sending Ethan to shower and dry off, putting a pizza in the oven to heat up for him, messaging Nicola to let her know he was here. I was on the couch nursing my newborn son, and saw in Greg the sheen of victory. He was happy for this, to have his son disown the imposter father. I stroked our baby’s head and held him to my breast, and I couldn’t even imagine a day when this would happen to me, that my son would run from my house. “Alright, I’ll talk to him,” I said. I dropped the phone into my bag, held my hand out behind me with the remote to lock the car. Walked toward the golf club, where the first arrivals were heading for the entrance. X I have relived this day a thousand times, and every time I imagine this is what happens next: I stop there. I turn, look back to the car glinting in the sun. And I see him, the top of his dark head just visible. Open the door and my baby boy is there in his car seat, asleep. A shadow passes over me, like some great predatory bird swooping low, and I glimpse the bottomless horror I almost fell into. “I can’t believe it,” I say to him. “I forgot to drop you at daycare!” I pick him up, feeling the weight of him, safe in my arms. The whole happy life full of laundry and car rides and conversations I didn’t want to have and ones I did, the small joys which were everything and the worries which I understand now were small too - it all comes rushing back to me. The shadow moves past me, and it’s just another day in my life.


Urrrrgh. Mmmmm. Guuuuh. That's mainly what my vocabulary consists of these days, grunts and groans, ever since I became a member of the walking dead, an undead, a zombie, you know, they were all the rage before they were actually a thing, I mean a real thing. I don't really remember how it happened. Memory's not exactly what it used to be. I'm guessing it has something to do with the lack of oxygen and natural decay. Honestly, I'm surprised I'm as... uh, what was the word? Well, I'm surprised I can manage with this much as it is. I'm a zombie now, and quite frankly, it sucks. There's no T.V., no books, no entertainment of any sort. We mostly just shamble around all day, I suppose it's good exercise. I've probably walked around more in the last couple of weeks than I have in my entire life. My calves would be impressive if one of them wasn't already half decomposed. Yeah, I'm one of those slow zombies, not a runner, even as a zombie I'm a loser. Sigh... Enough of the self-deprecating! Today's the day! I know it! I'm finally going to die. I don't know what the fuck some of these other zombies are on about with the brains, brains, brains bullshit. I hope you imagined the words brains, brains, brains being said all slow and real slurred like those zombies say. It kind of defeats the point or ruins the imagery if you don't imagine it like that. What was I on about? Oh, yes, the brains. Some zombies go gaga over that shit, but it tastes fucking awful, it's not cooked or anything. And there's absolutely no seasoning, not even a pinch of salt! Today's the day I'll die. Been trying to off myself since I became a zombie. I don't know if you've guessed already but being a zombie is kind of fucking awful. It's like living but worse somehow. Imagine that! But it's pretty hard to off yourself when you have the muscle strength of a toddler. What I wouldn't give for a tall cliff. If I slept, which I don't, and if I dreamed I know I would dream of shambling off the edge of a cliff and falling to my permanent death. I literally cannot express to you how much joy the very thought of it gives me. That's how much, nothing compares. So today I finally found some hope in my miserable life, a group of a humies, humans, (I thought I should at least be allowed to give a fun nickname to them since they always gave them to us and since I no longer am one of them anyway.) were scavenging a convenient store and I just happened to be nearby enough to hear them. I thought this was my chance, that surely one of them would have a gun, or a crowbar, or a baseball bat, or whatever that could finally end me. I hunched my shoulders all creepy-like and shambled over in the way I normally do and started making that I'm a zombie please kill me sound. I imagine it to sound both like a dying and crying animal of some sort. I was getting closer to the entrance way. This was finally my big day. And I'm in! And I look around to see the entire place empty. What the hell?! A door swivels closed at the opposite end of the store. A back entrance! What kind of convenience store has a back entrance!? What kind of badass survivors of a post-apocalyptic wasteland run away from a single zombie!? It was probably the groan, it was too menacing, I'll just sneak up on them all quiet-like next time. I do hope there's a next time. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_  The concept is basically a zombie keeps on trying to get itself killed but it never works out. I'm sure you've already realized, it's like the opposite of a zombie survival guide, haha, aren't jokes funny. Don't really need a critique, just interested in first impressions.


In a small old room with sunlight running through the yellow drapes, a seemingly ordinary clock ticked and tocked. The clock had colorful fur all around it and it was very huggable. A boy then held the clock close towards his chest and he heard his heartbeat match the rhythm of the clock. Walking backwards clumsily, he let his knees fall to the soft embrace of the bed and let go of his arms. The clock remained there in his chest, until the boy’s breathing got deeper and deeper till he was in a deep sleep. By the time he opened his eyes, he immediately caught the scent of grilled steak. He hopped off the bed and took off and down a flight of stairs. ‘You’re awake! Steak’s piping hot and ready!’ It was just the mother and the son sitting on the wooden table. The steak’s size was half of that of an adult’s and there was only one. ‘Go on ahead. I’ve eaten mine.’ The mom was looking him in the eyes with admiration. ‘Say, Jean. What do you think of your new toy?’ Jean mimicked how he hugged the clock and the mother smiled, ‘It’s so fluffy, and it makes the cutest chimes.’ Suddenly, a low tuned chime rang throughout the kitchen and it seemed like it came from upstairs. Jean, visibly frustrated, chewed on his meat faster, gulped it down, and walked quickly to the flight of stairs. Jean’s mother after seeing her son walk out and away from her sight, started sobbing quietly in the background. After climbing the set of stairs, the relentless chiming came to a complete halt. When he peeked inside his room, he found the clock on the bed and jumped up to the bed to hold it once more. Like he always does, he closed his eyes and embraces it. But very quickly, he opens his eyes and places his ears onto his toy. There was no tick tocks left to be heard and the second hand went dead. He then saw his mom peeking on him with concern. ‘I’ll buy you a real toy this time, okay? I promise you’ll like the next one.’ She gently approached the bashful boy and went to bed beside him. ‘You really love the clock?’ She whispered. After a few seconds of silence, he turned towards his mother. Jean spoke, ‘Jean believes the clock will ring again.’ He then felt the warm touch of his mother patting him on the shoulder. She then heard Jean sniffling and saw him holding back his tears. The next day, in the school premises, Jean emotionlessly rummages through his backpack inside the locker and pulled out his fluffy clock. He hid it underneath his shirt and headed back to his seat. Then, he discreetly placed it underneath his desk. He pressed on it gently but got interrupted by a group of cheery students. ‘Jean, come sing with us!’ In response, Jean refused politely, but the other surrounded him instead. The people around him seemed to be searching for something on his body. His friends spoke, ‘Wow is that a musical box I hear?’ ‘What a cute chime.’ ‘Show us. We want to know!’ ‘Ah! Here it is!’ One of the boys picked the clock from underneath Jean’s desk to his surprise. Jean, perplexed, asked his friends. “You can hear it?’ The boy replied, ‘Yes, and everyone else in class! Right?’ The others nodded in unison. He then explained his situation to the 4 students surrounding him. The 4 of them replied in succession. ‘You’re saying that after listening to the chimes yesterday, you can’t hear them anymore?’ ‘There’s no way, it must be that you’re imagining things! Like not being able to listen to it.’ ‘You should go see a doctor.’ One of the girls nudged the mean boy on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be mean. Although it’s most likely that you are hallucinating in reverse.. This really is a cute clock. Mind if we borrow it? Once the hallucination stops and you can hear the chime again, tell us and we’ll give it to you! I swear I won’t bully you or anything.’ She declared quite confidently in the whole class. I nodded in agreement. She then went back to her table and carried her favorite toys in her arms. With outstretched arms and a warm smile, she spoke, ‘Please have fun with these!’ ‘Thanks, Jasmine.’ Day by day went, and every time Jasmine brought out the clock in class, he wasn’t able to hear its melody. One day, Jean was too tired to wake up. His legs felt like jelly and he felt a bit nauseous. He then opens his eyes and sees his mother driving late at night. ‘mom...how did i get here..’ ‘oh dear. Oh dear... we’re going to be there soon, okay? The doctor will make you feel better.’ Rinng. Rinng. The melodious chime that he once heard came back to him. ‘Jasmine gave the clock back to you while you were sick because she knows you love it very much. Thank her later, okay?’ The lovely tune vanquished all the darkness that seemed to clench Jean’s heart and once again, he held the clock close to his chest and hugged it tight. Then, it went quiet again and the second hand stopped moving.. like how it used to be.


The ground shakes but not in a pretentious way. She isn't bitter; she's not mad at any one person. There is no need to feel angry when you are already dying. What's the point? Ending your time while thinking of the last person that hurt you. The ego that gives them, even if they're dying too. Her demeanor is soft, but her builders are vicious. The ocean, the land, the rivers, the sand. All break their silence, and in doing so, hurt each other. She'll watch as her creations tear it all apart. Nothing we could do, "where would we even start?" Nothing can be done when no one wants to change. Nothing can be done when someone says the problem is common, natural, and discreet. But it can. It could have, anyway. We can go back and try again. Still, we'd of learned infrequently. Even if we knew what we faced before we were sent back for another round, we'd convince ourselves that evil could not strike twice. It's ironic calling someone evil when you have been the one torturing them endlessly. Day after day, we humiliate and punish her for merely being. We own her; she belongs to us because she can not speak. We can do what we want because who will stop us? We can destroy an anthill because there is no consequence. We fear no vengeful ant. A thousand ants are no match for one hose. We may expect nothing from the ground, but the ants' creator will have the last laugh, even in her demise. Felicity releases her tight grip from the sycamore and falls to the shaking ground. Her notebook flies away as if destined to transport the final word to the last decider. If only Felicity had more time if only her creator could place a hold on her destruction. The tree moves forcefully, the roots coming out inch by inch. Felicity feels feeble, though she's surprised to find she feels anything. She looks up at the suicidal tree, which is beginning to lean towards Felicity. Her exhaustion won't allow her to move from danger; just as well, there are hundreds of trees encompassing the young woman, hanging on despite its numbered days. Felicity wills herself to begin rolling right at the very moment the tree comes crashing down. She screams at the 30-foot tree as it falls with little regard for the panicked human. Her roll picks up speed and just barely evades being crushed. The tree strikes against the ground, making a frightening noise in the sea of ominous sounds. Joining the variable stars exploding in the sky and onto land, the city buildings a mile away collapsing to the pavement. How much longer will this last? Felicity stares at the sky, red and furious. She hates the smugness of its demeanor. How confident and sure it is of itself. The wind howls through Felicity and makes a screeching sound that can not be ignored. Her fingers fork into the grass and dirt, trying to hold on while nature sings her 11 o'clock number. Felicity covers her ears with her shoulders, pressing them against her creator's wondrous creation. Her fingers, covered in mud, are now free from the ground, and therefore, free from stillness. Felicity rolls violently across the forest, hitting toppling trees and piles of leaves. Her hands try to lessen the impact and protect her face. Branches stab at her and hit her cheeks. She yelps, but against the wind's music, she may as well have said nothing. Thus begins the end for Felicity. She hangs onto a tree when she lands high on the hill overlooking the city. In the brief moment the wind stops its ballad, Felicity looks out to her old life. What used to be full of skyscrapers and flare is now filled with debris and fire. Collapsed buildings turn into fireplaces for giants, and parks turn into the wood. As the ballad of the wind picks up instruments, it's itching to bring Felicity with her. At first, Felicity fights it, holds on with all her strength. But as she looks out at her helpless home, she wonders what she's even holding onto. To see more death or to die more painfully? What we all thought was a distant potentiality is now a lugubrious reality. She looks at her right hand clutching the soon-to-be-dead tree, takes a breath, and releases her grip. She submits herself to Her device and lets nature gobble her up. "It's unbelievable," Clara lets out a sigh as she puts the coffee pot back on the hotplate. "Two weeks of gloomy clouds and rain. It's infuriating". Clara groans and grabs a seat beside Felicity, who's filling out a crossword puzzle from an old New Yorker magazine. "Eh, what can you do?" She asks with little interest. Clara huffs, "I tell you what, if this keeps up I'm moving out of this exhausting town." Felicity breaths out of her nose and looks up at Clara without moving her head. "Clara, city council didn't put this weather into legislation," she says with a smirk. "I know that! But it's gotta be better anywhere else, right?" Felicity looks to the side and considers her following statement. She debates the impact her hypothesis would have on Clara. So she chooses to agree, "right," she replies with a poor attempt at a reassuring smile. What Felicity knows, however, is that Clara will not be leaving this town. Though not because of logistics or change of mind. But because there won't be any point. It will all be the same. Manhattan will host the same fiery clouds as Seattle. Tampa Bay will light up from the same type of fire as Ontario. Felicity feels it when she walks outside and slowly chokes on the air. She sees the growing amount of dead bodies of homeless people on her commute to work. New York officials will say it's the heat or an overdose. Most will believe them while still yelling for them to do better. Yet Felicity sees through their efforts for them to remain calm. She notices how billionaires have begun constructing barriers and air filters on their mansions. Or how actors' Twitter accounts have vanished and have now dropped out of future movies and television engagements. The public figures it's a strike for noble causes. Felicity knows those people would never leave the spotlight willingly. She knows they're preparing for what comes next. Well, they're making other's prepare for them. It's when the clouds turn red that the notifications begin to report. Weather watch: unhealthy air alerts spread across the U.S from this record-breaking heat. Air-related illness and death are reported across the country. Citizens are instructed to remain indoors as much as possible and to wear facemasks when outdoors. U.S President reports the air quality is set to improve after the heatwave. It never did improve. The clouds that smothered the sky were not the result of nature but the result of selfishness. Americans across the country began to suspect the reality, though they managed to convince each other it was a temporary inconvenience. Clara puts the cream back in the refrigerator, grabs her mug, and takes a sip of the burned drink. She grunts and says, "I swear, there is nothing worse than burnt coffee." Felicity looks out the window and see's hell inside the dark clouds. She could swear it was a fire. The sky begins to open up, clouds disperse rapidly from each side, leaving a hairline of the sky. Only the sky is not blue but a dark red and orange. Heat absorbs the room instantly, and Felicity comes to realize this may be it. Clara sighs, "they have GOT to fix this air conditioning," as she waves a paper plate across her face. Felicity sees objects shooting into the sky. She wishes it was only war. And in a way, it is. She walks to the window and closes the blinds. A few more minutes of ignorance is what she craves. Her desire to be as clueless as Clara, to believe anything that gives her zero responsibility. Felicity takes a deep breath as Clara adds sugar to her coffee. Feeling an inevitable end, Felicity thinks to do only what she has the power to do, pretend. Play the innocent and ignorant. Be insolent and impotent. Pretend there is no end. Hold that Earth will not scold. Believe you can pull off naive. Be angry when you die and ask the world 'why?' Felicity breaths as best she can. She grabs her plastic bottle of Diet Coke and takes a big sip. Her last, it will be. The heat gets worse, the noises outside are weary. The wind is haunting and irregular. For a moment, the floor shakes in the break room. Clara looks down and tells Felicity, "I don't know why they don't just do construction on Saturdays." Felicity shrugs, completely ignoring what Clara had to say. She takes another large gulp of her Diet Coke. "You know, you're really not supposed to use plastic anymore," Clara snides, looking almost annoyed. It'd be a fine thing to critique if you didn't work for Chevron. Before Felicity thinks about replying, a sudden rumble of the floor begins to grow stronger. Glasses on the counter start to shake. Clara holds onto the counter, furious at the construction workers. Felicity decides she would hate to die in the office of the sinners. She is one, of course. But maybe her silent disapproval will give her amnesty. She sits up from her chair and begins to walk through the shaking room. "You should leave the building with me," Felicity tells Clara. No one should have to die that way. "It's just some construction babes," Clara tells her with a hint of irritation. Felicity doesn't object; she just grabs her purse and walks out. The stairs are across the break room. She expects a crowded stairwell, but instead, Felicity's met with just herself. She races down the stairs as the grown growls. She stops herself from falling several times, holding onto the fragile handle for dear life. Though the goal is only to have a better end. She get's to the main floor, where the front desk worker stays submissive to his char. "Tony, you should leave the building, it's going to fall." She can barely convince herself to find the point. "They told me to stay, Felicity," responds Anthony. She was going to ask by who, but she knows it's the executives in space, riding it out. She hears a loud noise from above, almost unbearable. It's happening. She doesn't yell for Tony; she just runs out. She sprints for her life, for her death, for her identity. She hears the building being returned to its original landlord. She doesn't look back; there is really no use. Felicity lays on the grass in the park. She breaths and cries as she looks for her old office building, though only dust and debris fill the air. Felicity gets up and walks further out of the city and into the park. Alone with only her thoughts, Felicity grabs a notebook and a pencil from her purse. As the winds sing and the ground shakes, she writes its lament. The Ballads of the Wind - Felicity Von Brandt Play the innocent and ignorant. Be insolent and impotent. Pretend that there is no end. Hold that Earth will not scold. Believe that you can pull off naive. Be angry when you die then ask the world, 'why?' The ground shakes but not in a conspicuous way. She's not bitter, not any more than yesterday. Why be angry when you're already dying? Ceasing your time while they continue lying. Concluding while recalling the person that hurt you The ego that gives them, even when they're dying too.


“ Two cannibals are sitting around an open spit, after killing and roasting a clown. Pulling a piece of meat from the julienned joker, one of the cannibals takes a bite, then recoils from the odd taste. How old do you think that clown was? Asked the first cannibal, before offering a taste of the stringed bicep to his companion. No idea, came the reply from his hungry friend. Why? “Does he taste funny to you...? Taking a bite of the barbecued human flesh, the second cannibal shakes his head. Then, with a gesture of masticated dissatisfaction, he spits out the meat. ...No, not funny, was the delayed reply before asking. Why do you think that is? With a wry smile, the first cannibal paused a moment, then jokingly replied, Because it’s not the humerus ...” “What was a clown doing in cannibal country?” Asked a short-statured man listening to the barroom tale. “It’s an anecdote,” the joke teller replied. “Maybe he got lost,” came an unsolicited suggestion from one of the other listeners-in. “Perhaps, he got kidnapped from a travelling circus,” a third man piped up. “Gentlemen, you’re missing the point,” the tall tale stretcher frustratingly tried to halt the unsolicited analysis of his joke. “ It’s not the humerus, you know , humorous ?” He repeated the punchline, unsuccessfully attempting to correlate the similarity between the two words. Charles D. Bonerz stood amongst a group of his peers in the auditorium bar at the second annual Doctors Of Gender Science Conference . Earlier in the evening, he had given a speech to a full house of several hundred peers from the medical science profession on the identifiable nature of bone gender - namely, the elbow. In his speech, he distinctly outlined how the degree of sexual dimorphism in the humerus, can positively identify the gender of human remains, and that the results unambiguously countered the non-binary gender claims of those seeking to not be exclusively labelled male or female. He further added fuel to the Woke ideology debate of there being more than two sexes by stating that the humerus results scientifically debunked the toxicity of the Woke gender identification, utilising modern medical and scientific testing to categorically prove it. “ Humerus gender identification was nothing to be laughed at ,” he concluded to a round of applause as he rushed off to get a well-earned drink. “How would the cannibals know it was the humerus?” The first inquisitive doctor sought further clarification. “Because it would have tasted funny!” Charles once again attempted to emphasise the punchline. “Sorry, you are?” Charles squinted to read the name tag of his socially inept heckler. “ Doctor William Stroker,” he accentuated the surname, then hesitated as some schoolboy humour tickled his brain. “Yep, Dr Willie Stroker . That’s funny. Seems I’m not the only comedian in the room. Where did you come up with that one?” “My parents,” was the unimpressed reply. “...Really? Oh, sorry,” Charles stifled a chuckle. "What was your father’s name then, Richard ?” “Yes, how did you know?” Bursting into hysterical laughter, Charles quickly controlled his spontaneous ridicule, as he noticed no-one else in the group was laughing. “Forgive me,” Charles apologised. “That was quite juvenile of me. In answer to your question on cannibal Osteology,” Charles again tried to lighten the mood. “I believe they have a history of studying old bones ...” Waiting for the slightest of responses, Charles found himself disappointed at the lack of his group’s sense of humour. “That may be so,” said, Dr Stroker. “But it still doesn’t explain why a circus chose to tour a region widely known for its headhunters.” “If I may,” an older Asian-looking gentleman spoke up. “My name is Dr Anass Rhammar.” He briefly stopped as Charles’ inner schoolboy hung on for a giggle at the sound of the Indian doctor’s name. “Yes, it is a common reaction,” Dr Rhammer explained, before smilingly adding, “And I can see how humerus it is to you, Dr Bonerz.” Capturing Charles’ attention with a shared adage of humour, Dr Rhammer continued. “A little jocularity of my own, gentlemen. Perhaps, you have read my book, The Rhammercations of Indigenous Nomadic Life . I’ve spent many years studying the behaviours of indigenous tribes of the Mapuche people of Southern Chile and can attest to their love of the ritual of the clowns. I found that clowning is a sort of social commentary enacted by them in response to their own lack of agency amidst the suffocating Chilean colonialism they have had to face for centuries.” “You’re referring to their feeling of disempowerment, unable to act on their own behalf to control their own destiny. That, that sort of stuff?” Dr Stroker stammered. “Precisely, my esteemed colleague. Your analogy is as sharp as a curare-tipped dart . Let’s hope you never sit on one accidentally. My goodness gracious, it will take your breath away and make you shit yourself clean.” Before continuing his story, Dr Rhammer paused for the laugh that never materialised. “Moving on, I would imagine in the scenario of Dr Bonerz’ story of the poor misfortunate clown, he may have been completely cognisant of his own roasting, as curare doesn’t cross the blood brain barrier. The one consolation from being roasted alive, is that he wouldn’t have felt a thing.” The open mouths of Charles and the rest of the group prompted Dr Rhammer to quickly sum up his medical and social study of the remote Chileans, before he got labelled, a Quack . “My point is that the indigenous people of Southern Chile feel unengaged with matters relating to governance. A kind of moral indictment to their belief that they are denigrated as being too Mapuche . So, the ritual of becoming clown-white, allows them to come to terms with their own plight.” Head bowed and eyes closed, Charles had sincerely tried to listen to the conversation circumventing his joke, but the ineptitude to get past the fact that Willie Stroker was discussing indigenous culture with Anass Rhammer , clouded his interpretation of the earnest and intellectual discussion. “What do you think, Dr Bonerz?” The older doctor brought him back to the moment. “I think I need another drink.” “But wait. Dr Stroker requested - halting Charles’ exit. “That still doesn’t explain how the clown ended up being eaten.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Stroker.” Charles snapped. “Maybe they were hungry!” “Hungry? Hungry?” Interrupted another listener-in. “That’s my department,” the cheerful new member of the group announced as his face darted back and forth over the right shoulder of Charles. “Doctor Geremy Feelgood, at your service. Feelgood’s the name, feel good you will, when I make you feel good ... Delighted to meet you all.” Restrained from leaving by Dr Feelgood’s arm around his shoulders, Charles remained tight-lipped as he fought off a case of indifference, and politely nodded his head, hoping the interruption was momentary. “What’s your specialty, Dr Feelgood?” Dr Stroker asked. “Nutrition, old chap,” was the enthusiastic reply. “ What’s hot in gut rot , is my motto.” “Nutritionists aren’t doctors,” Charles rudely mentioned - hoping he could deter Dr Feelgood from staying. “Nonsense, dear boy. Utter rubbish,” Feelgood replied - speaking in a rapid response. “Seven years as a Gastroenterologist led me to seek out the practice of why we should eat what we eat and not why the hell did we eat what we ate ... Bit of a tongue twisting analogy, there. Give it a try after a few drinks. Heaps of fun. However, to toot my own horn, I’m a fully qualified professional. Certificates to prove it on my website, drfeelgood.com - abbreviated.” “Dr Feelgood, I’m Dr Rhammer. I studied a little nutrition during my last trip to the jungles of the Amazon, seeking out the similarities between indigenous people of the Amazon basin.” “Fascinating, Dr Rhammer. I wasn’t aware that Chile was included in that geographic range. Sorry, I was rudely eavesdropping on your earlier conversation. I’m a great fan of the Betel Nut.” “Your little compass is pointing straight at my wide geographic location, Dr Feelgood, but unfortunately, your nuts point elsewhere. Different continent, I’m afraid.” “Is it? My goodness. I’m always getting them mixed up with Brazilians,” he laughed. “Which one’s the rounder one?” “That would be the Areca Nut - commonly known as the Betel.” “No, I’m sure it’s the other one.” “Answering your question, Dr. Feelgood,” Dr Rhammer continued. “You are correct. Chile is not part of the Amazon Basin. My study was purely to ascertain what type of common denominators exist in the natives of that vast continent. I quickly discovered that my search uncovered similarities more so in social standing than in cultural practices. Indigenous is a label we like to tag native people from a certain region with. However, when you journey into the interior of the region, it becomes apparent that it is a vast area encompassing many interpretations of various cultures - some, hidden for centuries from the rest of the world.” “Lucky fellows,” Dr. Feelgood commented. “I would suffice to say that they’re better off unmolested from modern man.” “Your statement holds a certain degree of truth, my friend,” Dr. Rhammer responded. “However, civilisation is fast encroaching on all remote areas of this planet and if nothing is done to halt it, so many things will be lost to the benefit of medical science.” “Okay,” Charles took advantage of the thought-provoking pause in the conversation. “Anyone else care for a drink?” “Darling!” The loud female voice landed in the middle of the group. “What have I missed?” With the look of someone frozen in time, Charles managed to squeeze out a surprised, “ Sarah ?” “Charles, darling. Great speech earlier. Have a few things needed to be discussed, argued - in fact. A few small points of Tacitus interpretation. In your language, a bone of contention.” “Very amusing,” Dr Rhammer commented. “Perhaps next year, the conference could include an open mic night for doctors with droll. Nothing like humour to break the ice.” “Sarah Bonerz, everyone! Well, that’s ex-Bonerz, now. Was married to this pineapple head for a while, until I found my true self. You could say that I am the driving force behind Chuck’s pointless quest to prove that there are only two sexes in our gene pool.” “Delighted!” Dr Feelgood said. “Feelgood’s, the name, to feel good is the game. I help a lot of women your size deal with weight loss, while helping them onto the righteous path of nutrition health.” Charles saw the look on his ex-wife’s face change into a disdainful grimace from Dr Feelgood’s tactless and shameless solicitation for business, so acted quickly to diffuse any potential inbound retort. “Dr Feelgood...” “Call me Geremy, old chap. No need for us all to be on a formal basis. It’s all peer-to-peer here, I suspect.” “Yes, thank you, Geremy .” “Charles.” “Geremy...” “Charles.” “For fuck’s sake, man. I’m trying to tell you that my non-binary ex-wife does not identify with gender labelling. She made that abundantly clear in our divorce papers. I quote, Inseparable indifferences to gender identities .” “Most sorry for your marital troubles, Charles,” Dr Rhammer consoled. “Thank you, Anass.” “Non-binary is not something that has cursed my culture, yet. In fact, we have become such a technological force to be reckoned with, that binary or non-binary solely exists in the digital space only.” “ Cursed ?” Sarah asked. “It is not a curse. It is a way of life.” “It’s a life choice,” Dr Stroker interjected.” “What, like crocheting or yoga?” Sarah insultingly asked. “Treat loads like you, I do,” Dr Feelgood attempted another overture. “Word of mouth among your kind paid for my new plush offices.” “Loads like me? My kind?” A wounded Sarah repeated. “Yes, the unidentifiable ,” Dr Feelgood stated - not realising a level of ignorance beyond any modern-day comprehension. “Are all doctors blind to social change?” Asked Sarah in an accusatory tone of voice. “Or are you too busy bonding at events like this to notice the world evolving before your eyes?” Glad that he had been delayed from getting that drink, Charles felt a sarcastic smile envelop his face, while watching Sarah being put on the defensive. “You never could argue objectivity, could you, Sarah? You change your mindset and the whole world has to accept it, against all logic and common sense.” “Did you know that the right type of foods can help clear a muddled mind?” Dr Feelgood once again tried to drum up business. “Shut up,” Sarah barked. “I’m not staying here listening to you and all of your archaic ways of thinking.” “It’s a big room, Sarah,” said Charles. Find a corner and go brood in it. That’s what you always used to do with me.” “Fine,” she indignantly replied. “But first, let me leave this one with you Neanderthals, then... A doctor walks into an operating theatre for a life-saving surgery. Seeing the patient on the operating table, they turn to the anaesthetist and say, I can’t operate on this person, because this person is my son ... Who is the surgeon?” “That is simple,” said Dr Rhammer. “It is his father!” “No, you Dinosaur.” “His Stepdad,” Dr Stroker guessed.” “How did you ever pass your medical exams?” Sarah bluntly asked. “I know, I know!” Dr Feelgood bounced around. “It’s his illegitimate father!” “How does that work?” “His parents didn’t get married?” “You are dim, Dr Feelgood,” Sarah insultingly stated. “But I must admit, feeling more intelligent than you has made me feel good, Feelgood .” Turning to Charles, Sarah waited for his answer to the operating room refusal. “Charles?” “No,” Charles declined. “I’m not taking the bait.” “Whatever! Then, do you know how to keep idiots in suspense?” Without anyone answering, Sarah turned to leave, then dismissively waving her hand at the group, she bid them all a curt farewell. “Goodbye!” Sauntering into the crowded bar, Sarah quickly disappeared among the revellers - leaving the group of men in a collective suspenseful state of mind. “Charles, do you know?” Dr Rhammer asked. “It’s his mother,” Charles revealed. “No, I meant do you know how to keep an idiot in suspense?” “Yes,” replied Charles. “I do.” “That’s rich, old chap,” Dr Feelgood changed the focus. “For someone not identifying with a gender, your ex-wife managed to easily label the refusing surgeon in that little riddle.” “Yes, that’s Sarah to a tee. It’s her way or the highway. I’ve spent the past three years trying to prove her wrong.” “How ironic, Charles,” said Dr Rhammer. “Sarah gave you the proverbial elbow and you dedicate your life to studying the humerus. Very funny, indeed!” “So, anyone for a drink?” Charles asked. Letting out a huge laugh, Dr Stroker energetically patted Charles on his back. “ Does this taste funny to you ?” Dr Stroker repeated. “I get it! He’s a clown!” “Well done, William,” Charles congratulated him as they all headed toward the bar. “You got there in the end...”


November 13th, 2020 It had only started out as a small sneeze in the eastern countries in late march. What could one expect when it was allergy season? People’s eyes started itching and their sneezes soon turned into coughs, then coughs turned into wheezing. Not only was it a constant lack of airflow to the lungs, there soon was a rise in fevers. What could be worse; feeling like you're burning up in a cold sleep, or not being able to breathe? On April 4th, scientists released information that the name of the virus was MAV-19 as it was discovered on March 19th. In the reports, MAV-19 came from a strain of the rabies virus. What others didn’t already know was that it was airborne. We all had it, only some of us, including myself didn’t show symptoms. Those who were in the heart of ground zero fled in fear, unaware that their selfish decisions carried the virus across the globe. No matter how many times the CDC told us to stay inside, people kept on traveling and traveling and traveling. You must stay six feet apart at all times they said, but you can’t do that on a plane. Just passing through in an airport, thousands became further contaminated. By the time it was May 23, just over a million people were infected with their bloodshot veiny eyes. Often you’d see people walking around with sunglasses as their condition worsened over the weeks. Their skin became frail and pale like rice paper. The report then was that more than 240,000 had died across the globe. Countries shut down completely. Long ago they told us to stock up on food and water while many stocked up on toilet paper instead, fighting each other till the last roll. For a nuclear family, 30 rolls of toilet paper should last them 3 weeks. What could one nuclear family do with 200 rolls of toilet paper? Some at the time thought it was funny, a waste of time to hoard, just a conspiracy, but that was until a lady collapsed at the Sam’s Club in Saint Cloud. A video was uploaded to Youtube by one of the shoppers. The lady had started laughing hysterically, tearing off the produce from their shelves. She then started coughing up blood. Her wheezing could be heard echoing from across the store. Before she knew it she had collapsed. Her bones cracked, popping out of place as if made of gelatin. Shoppers screamed, dispersing from the scene. A man crouched down beside her to see if she was still breathing. Only a moment later she grabbed him by the hair and tore open his neck. I just remember that there was lots and lots of blood. It was only hours after this incident that the public knew she was tagged as a patient who had escaped her treatment facility. She was the first of many who had mutated into the deadly ones. That was just the beginning of the end. The woman was of Asian descent and because of this the Asian community became the targets of outward racism. The president was a fool who tried to tell all of us that it would be fine. The video is a fake, don’t listen to the fake news, lies, lies, lies, lies, that’s all he ever had to say. He wouldn’t even stand up for his own citizens that were being harassed just for being themselves. We never got to elect a new president before this all went down. It would’ve happened 10 days ago. Now it is November 13th, 2020, 174 days after the incident. After that video people called this virus Garnet 1, after the woman. Her name was Garnet Jones, a mother of two. It was never said what happened to her after the video ended. Maybe it was best that we didn’t know. There aren’t many of us left in Saint Paul, if any at all. The city has been infested with those devils. I remember when we used to go back to school shopping in September, how we all used to be excited to see each other. Now you wouldn’t dare walk up to another person without the risk of being infected or caught. They still look human from afar and it scares me everytime I think about it. I’ve found a home in the abandoned train carts along the outskirts of the city. My father had just come back from his morning hunting trip and asked me to pick up my younger brother and sister from school. He left all of his hunting gear including a knife, his bow, arrows, and rifle in the trunk of the van. I had just picked them up and was already on my way back on Highway 61 when everything stopped. Screams shattered as the cars piled up on the bridge. No one could get through. It happened in such a commotion I still can’t process how we got from the car to trains. All I know is that we ran. The caboose was the only place I could hide before they found us too. The sun set licks my heels over the cracked concrete pavement. I’ve stayed out for too long. Under the Wabasha Bridge a small pack of Garnets congregate, waiting for the fallen sun. I’ve heard them communicate before. Broken words of English mixed with grunting. If they spoke more, they would end up wheezing. Somewhere inside I know they still have their humanity, I just don’t know where. It's only a matter of time before the Garnets come hunting for the night. It's never safe to be out in the dark. No matter how much I want to believe that we’re not the only survivors here, the hope is starting to fade more and more by the day. I tighten my backpack straps and make a dash to the train tracks. My scoliosis must hate me with the heavy load from today. I jump over debris from broken cars, careful to watch my feet near the bottom of cars. People got out of their car once the pileup happened and they got snatched from Garnets hiding under vehicles. I climb the ladder of the caboose and knock three times on the hatch. Little footsteps echo, climbing the ladder to unlock it from the inside. “Mae, is that you?” a little voice whispers. “Yes, Darin. Hurry, it’s getting dark.” I glance back over to the bridge. “I got something that I think you’ll like.” The Garnets from the bridge haven’t noticed me and I intend to keep it that way. I've raided the last shop from the outer stores of the east side. Darin pops open the hatch and I climb in quickly. My sister Elaina sleeps on the makeshift bed of couch cushions I found in the back alleyways. Her long black hair tangles over her small face. A pile of her drawings and color pencils scatter on the makeshift table in the middle of the room. “What did you find?” Darin fixes the blanket over Elaina. I lay down my backpack, waving for him to open it. Carefully he opens the bag to not let the zipper make a loud rip. One by one he counts and sorts each item into piles. “Lets see. You got six cans of chicken noodle soup, a can of beans, a gallon of water, a mini hand sanitizer keychain, four ramen noodle cups, three lighters, and finally a walkie talkie?” “Someone left it behind in the shop. If you look at the bottom, it says ‘Madeline’. I had a friend in college named Madeline. It would be something if that Madeline was my friend. I was hoping that maybe I could try to contact the group if they’re still in the city. Nothing too fantastic was left to pick up beside that, but it's enough to survive for another two weeks. Soon I will have to go searching on the other side of town to scavenge cans and medicine.” I've never been over there during these times. If I go and don’t come back, who will take care of them? There is no shelter that is safe. During the day, you'll never see the Garnets roaming the streets in the light. I figured out quickly that it's their weakness. It rots and burns their skin faster than it already is, blinding their eyes. No matter how long you linger in the streets to mock them, most will never touch you. It's a stupid idea though. The ones who are braver will jump out at you, disregarding their burning flesh. You will burn with them. The Garnets know where to hide during the day light so their prey are unsuspected. It’s clear that they are highly intelligent creatures but they are not mindless creatures. Everyone who was left months ago has either gone missing or turned into one of them. The military flamed the city not long after. I should say that I'm lucky to even have survived this long by myself considering that I have no one left. Before everything happened, it was my first year in college. I had made the Dean's Honor Roll my first semester and was headed for another great second semester, but then we were told to go home. It’s for your safety, they said. Online classes didn’t last for very long. I'll tell you that. “I’ve seen these walkie talkies that came in a pack of 4 with a range of 5 miles last I saw from Cabela’s. Should we turn it on?” I nod in agreement. The glowing screen says that it still has 50% of battery left. If there is one way to find someone out there, this would be our chance. “Is anyone out there? I have Madeline’s walkie talkie,” I call out and release the button. Please, someone answer! Anywhere else would be better than this caboose. I can’t protect them here forever. We wait for two minutes and no one answers back. Out of 300,000 people in Saint Paul, there really is no one left. “I don’t think anyone is going to answer. I suppose I should make some food. Would noodles be okay for tonight?” Darin picks up two cups of noodles. “That would be fine.” I give him a reassuring smile. I can see the sadness in his eyes. I need to get enough supplies so we can move somewhere further away from the city. Winter will come soon and it’s important to find as much as possible. It is unknown whether the Garnets can survive the winter here in Minnesota. I don’t even know if we’ll be able to survive this winter. Sunlight is being cut shorter and shorter as the days go by. Maybe if I try just once more, someone might answer. I won’t let them die out here alone. They deserve better than to be out here like this. I pick up the walkie talkie once more and press the button. “Hello, are there any survivors out there? I have Madeline’s walkie talkie.” “Yeah, we heard you the first time and we know your location. Pack up your bags and come to the river. We’re leaving in 10 minute with or without you,” a deep voice answers back. And there was no reply after that. Have they gone mad? The shadows of the night have already engulfed the caboose. It is the start of the hunting hour. This could be the only chance. Am I risking Darin’s and Elaina’s life for a group of strangers, or are we finally going to find our freedom?


She could feel her skin prickle with goosebumps as she rose out of the warm water of the tub, the sunlight had finally hit the ideal angle through the bathroom window to start taking photos. She called in Joe to begin taking the shots. Pose this way, now that way he said. Often times she felt like the poses weren't so much for the benefit of the camera as they were for Joe himself. This wasn't the first time she had regretted signing that contract, but the money was required and even if Joe was creepy, at least he wasn't like her last client. That guy had some deep seated issues to work out. She kept shifting around for the poses, oftentimes dipping her body back into the warmth of the bath. Joe was an artiste, and he would often forget the simple things like making sure his models were actually comfortable during the longer photo shoots. Finally, she pulled the plug, the bathwater draining down, she was on her knees still from the last position which had felt like it was about a pull a muscle in her back. Stretching with her arms crossed above her shoulders, she arched back, the gentle curve of her back had the dual effect of releasing some stress as well as pushing her breasts up into what some would call a perky position. After a second of this stretch she heard the click of a camera. Thinking that Joe was done she lowered her arms and saw surprise in his eyes. He was looking at the camera, at the photo he had just taken. The strange thing was the look on his face, she was used to that look that many had when attempting to hide their own arousal, but this, this was new. He looked at the camera with a tinge of awe. Unfortunately she couldn't find out why. Joe was always secretive with his photos, it was part of her contract that all pictures taken by him belonged to him and he would never release them unless he wanted to, and so far he hadn't. The next morning as she was packing her bags to move on to the next client, Joe came up to her and handed her an envelope. It was one of those larger ones designed to keep letters flat, that off yellow in colour with a USB taped to the outside. Hesitantly, Joe spoke, "This one is yours" he said. "I know that you have reached a point in this career where you think nobody sees you, I mean truly sees you, and I get it. If i had to deal with people like me all the time i'd be pretty jaded too. I just wanted you to see this photo, and to hang on to it. The USB has the original raw image file, but i stayed up late last night and processed this for you. I want you to put it up somewhere, somewhere that you can see it often, so that you can be reminded of just how beautiful you truly are." He walked back out to the hallway and turned towards his studio, feet shuffling on the floor like always. She grabbed her bags and left, payment had been made and there was another client waiting. Some time later she heard through a friend of a friend that Joe's apartment had burned down, with him inside. She wasn't sure what to feel about that. She never did put that photo up, hell, after the initial glance at it, she'd never even looked at it again. More time went by and she was walking home from the corner store, a loaf of bread under one arm and a bottle of whiskey under the other, it was the fifth bottle that week. Her phone beeped with a message, setting down the bottle she pulled it out of her pocket and looked. It had a few messages from a blocked number, she opened them up and saw Joe's smiling face in a selfie taken at a stunning beach. The message underneath said: "That photo changed my life, I was in a bad place and needed a change, it was the perfect catalyst, so i faked my death and moved to Mexico and haven't regretted a day since, I hope it's done you good as well." It wasn't until she shivered from cold that she realised she had been standing there long enough for the sun to have gone down. The top of her blouse was damp from tears. Using her sleeve she wiped her face and broke out in a smile at the image of Joe with such a happy grin. After a moment she started walking again, not even realising she had never picked the whiskey bottle back up. But she knew, she knew that change was coming. She doubted she'd need to fake her death like Joe did, she didn't owe any money and wasn't under anyone's control. For the first time in years, she was looking forward to the next day.


Author’s Note: I like this plotline, but I’m not sure if it has enough action or not. Let me know in a comment, please. Also, this is my second story. So, go me, I guess. :D Anyways, I hope that you all enjoy it! “Mom!” Asher, my son, calls. “I’m busy!” I yelled back. “Dad!” I smirk, pleased with myself. My kids have learned that when I say that I’m busy, I’m genuinely busy with my drawing. You see, I am a freelance animator. It’s an exciting job, and I get to work from home. My kids like to “help”, but we all know how that goes. So, I have taught them not to. I resume my storyboard sketching of a new upcoming movie. The company that I was currently working for had told me that I had to go to the studio and show them what I had finished the next day. Therefore, I was cramming in a whole bunch of work. Anyway, I began scribbling away when my phone blared the theme song of Ghostbusters . I sighed, exasperated, before picking up my phone, putting it up to my ear, and saying hello. “Hi. Is this Kelly Jopky?” Who is this lady? I thought. Her voice sounded familiar, yet I couldn’t tell exactly who it was. Maybe it was the new employee at the aforementioned company. “Uh... Yes. Who is this?” I asked. There was a moment of silence before the woman responded. “Kelly, I-I’m Leylah Lokman,” Leylah responded. Leylah Lokman... not the new employee... not a friend that I know... not any previous coworker... What was she to me? “I’m sorry, Leylah, but I’m still not sure who you are. I don’t mean to rude,” I said. My mind raced, thinking of any Leylah that I knew. Not one person came to mind. “Kelly, I’m your mother. Now, before you hang up, I want you to know that I’m sorry. I should’ve been there for you throughout your life, but I couldn’t take care of you, Kel. I didn’t have a job, the landlord was going to take away my house, and I just didn’t have the right mindset to raise a child. Please, please, please forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it, but... please...” Leylah trailed off. I didn’t say anything. Hot tears rolled down my face. Now I recognized the voice. I remember her voice singing to me when I was first born, and when she spoke softly to me when she dropped me off... --- Five-year-old me shivered in the biting temperatures. I wrapped my coat tighter around my lanky body. Momma walked two steps ahead of me, my tiny legs trying to keep up. Tears began rolling down my face, but they pretty much froze the second they escaped my eyes. I knew what was happening; I just didn’t want it to. “Momma! Why are you taking me to that place? I don’t wanna go, Momma,” I whined. I was practically yelling over the howl of the wind. Momma didn’t respond for a moment. “Kelly Ann, stop asking questions that you don’t want the answers to. Now, hurry up. I want to get you there before they close. It’s already five-thirty,” Momma snapped. She snatched my hand and started pulling me along. The tears came so fast now that they raced down. ‘There’ was Miss Joy’s Hope for Kids. AKA the local orphanage, and from what I knew, there was nothing that had to do with hope there. Momma and I continued our brisk walking, my crying turning into sobbing. The only thought that ran through my mind was: Momma’s leaving me. That thought just raced around my head. I couldn’t get it out. Finally, the two of us reached the doors of the Miss Joy’s. Momma took a deep breath before knocking. --- “Hi, Leylah,” I greet, sliding into the booth across from her. She had invited me to lunch at Olive Garden with her. I was nervous about it. When Leylah had called me before, she had asked me to forgive her. I had avoided the question, changing the subject. Now, I knew that I would have to either forgive her or ignore my mother forever. “Hey, Kel. The breadsticks and salad should be here in a minute. And I didn’t know what you wanted to drink, so I didn’t order you anything,” Leylah said. “Oh, that’s fine.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The two of us waited for the server to come before speaking again. I ordered a Diet Coke, then glanced at Leylah. “Look, Kelly, I don’t mean to pressure you or anything, but I want to know if you’ll forgive me. It’s been 32 years, so I know it’s hard, and you probably don’t think I deserve it, but... God, I just want to be able to make up for the time that I lost with you,” Leylah rambled. Everything she said reigned true. I realized that I was being selfish, but I didn’t think she deserved it. It was hard. And I didn’t know what I would do. Countless thoughts dashed around my mind. Unbelievable emotions coursed through my blood. My hands shook. I lightly scratched my cheek, even though it wasn’t itchy. I could feel Leylah’s eyes on my head, but I kept my eyes on an interesting spot on the table. I grabbed my phone and looked at the time, although it was irrelevant. “Leylah... You caused my depression, the bullies that hurt me, the teachers who put me in detention every day. You were the start of all of it. You weren’t there for me, Leylah,” I said. “I know. I know that. And I’m so sorry for that. And I’m hoping that you’ll remember what I did do for you. The good I did when you were little. Please remember,” Leylah pleaded. I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Leylah, but I can’t.” Grabbing my purse and phone, I headed out of the restaurant.


A nice night for a chat 39/10/2019 Ella enjoyed her night walks in the Pembleton Cemetery. Despite a name that invoked stately residences, Pembleton was not an upmarket zone. The grid of unadorned streets was lined with 50’s wooden boxes in various states of dilapidation, high fences boasted a variety of graffiti; some bordered on art, others sported ugly botches and ill spelled profanity. The pavements were cracked, in parts weeds were winning the battle to regain control. Not the path to the cemetery though. Age worn well-attended cobbles led to a set of grand iron gates that led her through a stone wall of gothic proportions. The cemetery was a gentle hill of manicured grass and elegant gardens presided over by stately elms and an aura of dignity. This cemetery had been here long before the suburb had decayed around it; even before the time when the streets were promises of quiet family life in neatly matching boxes and white picket fences. A time when a village had dreamed big. Cemeteries old or new; ancient and revered or military squares of lined up plaques all tend to offer one thing. Silence. The people here are at peace. Many of those in Pembleton’s cemetery had been at peace for over a hundred a century. A warm blanket of security settled over her. Coco was asleep with her Nan. Rob may or may not be back from wherever he had stormed off to. Ella needed the solitude of the nigh time cemetery to think. She was a little surprised to see two elderly men chatting on a bench, it was rare to see anyone there during the day, less likely so late. She gave them a nod and walked on. “That is her.” “That is who?” “My granddaughter. They still live here you know. He got a new car last week. One of those modern sleek things. Looks like a suppository.” “Ahh... (chuckles). My family have gone. But what brings you here tonight old friend? It is so long since we sat here together wagging our chins.” “It just seems like a nice night for a chat.” “Yes. It does.” “So what have you been up to Reginald?” “Ah Bill! I have been having fun! Of course. I rather like visiting the Nortons. They brought our place on Edgar St. I pop in. Enjoy a cuppa. Let them know what I think of their lack of improvements of the old house. They don’t know what to make of me!” He chuckles. “You old shyster Reg! “So what do you do with your time then, William?” “I hang with family mostly, keeping an eye on them.” You got to have a bit of fun. I still pop down to Benny’s sometimes. Remember Benny’s?” “Hahahaha! How can we forget! We had a few rumbles there back in the day. What are they up to in there Reg? I gotta come in with you one night!”” “It’s bigger, noisier. All parked up with big dirty road bikes outside. A lot more rumbles. No honest flying fists these days.” Reg scowled. They get mean. Mean drunk and mean fists. Sometimes knives. Hard looking girls. Not like Bessy and Pats! Still, I will give them a pat on those tight butts and they have no idea where to look hahahah!” “Ahhh! There is some nostalgia for you. Back when bad girls were good!” He chuckled wryly. Those gals knew how to make a man feel good. Until I met my Elizabeth of course. And you settled down with Katherine. Or pretended to.” “Heheh! Don’t get me wrong, I loved my sweet Katherine. A good girl. A good mother. But, I reckon it just did a good man good to pick up Bess in the old Ford once a month or so.” Reg grinned salaciously. “My Lizzie was everything. Sure I thought of Bessy and Pats from time to time, like recalling a childhood sweet you no longer want. Like those milk bottle candy when they were good. They just aren’t so good no more. I reckon I would have one of those again if I could.” “What happened to your boys Reg? You had a couple didn’t you?” His brow creases, trying to recall. “Good as I far as I know, gone off to Australia. Land of sand and weird critters. Too far for me to go. No idea even how.” Clouds had rolled over the moon immersing the cemetery in a velvet cloak. The air was a little chiller. The two men did not notice as they sat quiet for a time in their memories. “Your granddaughter’s a fine looking lass. No ‘semblance to Lizzie though.” “No, but you should see her wee girl! Just three months old. The spit of my Lizzie. She looks at me and her eyes light up, gives a smile that’d melt an iceberg. She knows me! Ella thinks little Coco is looking at her; but no, it’s me she’s seeing.” Bill settles back with a happy grin. His grin fades as his thoughts take a darker turn. “I reckon her man is no good. Not a stupid old coot like you, nasty. Sometimes I see a bruise on her that don’t look like she banged into a door. Come to think of it I hang around there a lot and I hardly see him. Maybe I better pop into Benny’s with you, mayhaps that is where he’s lurking.” He thinks for a bit. “It’s good this chat Reg. It’s waking me up. Making me think. Living in this dump how did that man of hers buy that fancy car? And why does she walk up here all on her own?” “Yes old friend. I think we been woke up for a reason.” “It has been a nice night for a chat.” The two men shook hands. Ella completed her circuit; as she walked down the curved path toward the gates, the moon shone briefly through a thin patch of cloud bathing the two old men in a luminescent glow for a few seconds, before they disappeared altogether. Ella shook her head. She was seeing things. Pembleton Star 1/11/2019 Last night local man, Robert Drake, was declared deceased after a fall from Denny’s balcony. Why he stumbled backwards over the high rail is a mystery; but observer Candy Floss said “He looked like he had seen a ghost.”