Helen shook. Her muscles ached from shaking. She had always hated the darkness but grew to dread the sliver of light that came when the door creaked open. She closed her eyes to the darkness and tried to take herself far away. She traveled to her grandfather's house, where he would tell her stories that brought tears to his eyes while he smiled. She went to memories as they faded and held them like a limb. Still, the black pierced her eyelids and betrayed her delusions. Helen felt her way into a corner and took a deep breath of stale air. Her mind found its way back to its most convincing tangent; her room transformed into the peace and certainty of a tomb. Helen held her breath and drifted off before the next. A sharp pain woke her from her restless sleep. As quickly as she opened her eyes to the black, her hand shot out and grabbed at the rat that had been feasting on her. She fought the desire to squeeze the life out of it as it contorted to bite at the flesh of her hand. Holding its head tightly, the rat continued to claw at her in a struggle for its life. Helen tied a rope of torn cloth around its tail, then threw the rat hard against the concrete floor. As Helen hoped, the stunned rat fled frantically. Helen held a loose grip on her rope and let the rat lead her. Climbing up the rough walls, the rat found its exit easily in the darkness. Helen felt along the rope and found a small crack in the concrete at the edge of her reach. She wondered how the rat could have squeezed through. Still holding the rope, she felt around for her bucket and placed it directly beneath the crack to use as a stool. Helen pulled at the rat, still fighting to get free. She planned to kill it to avoid being bitten again, but as she reeled in its gnawed off tail she realized she simply hated it. Helen began to chip away at the concrete. She had managed to slide one of the iron rings off of the bucket and bend it into a brittle tool. The concrete crumbled faster than it ate away at the rusted iron, but soon wore it down to a sharp splinter Helen could not hold in her fingertips. Standing on the bucket, she twisted her hand to fit through the crack. Her skin tore in deep lines as she reached past her wrist. As she stretched to reach further the bucket broke. Helen's wrist snapped as she dropped. Her cry shocked her. She had lost her voice soon after arriving and hadn't heard it since. Dragging her swollen hand from the hole, she cracked her teeth as she bit down in pain. Helen sat against the wall and let out a terrible sound that echoed for too long. The sound of the door's mechanism alerted her to the arrival of her host and Helen quickly shielded her eyes in the crook of her arm. The door creaked open slowly and the figure stepped in. They did not speak. Helen's eyes still burned from the occasions she had tried to see her captor or neglected to shield her eyes. The being shone a blinding light towards Helen, who had become accustomed to darkness and could not focus her eyes through the pain. "Why?" Helen asked, knowing she would never get her answer. They brought Helen's food and water, hardly a mouthful left to pool in an indentation in the floor and left immediately. The closing door shifted the stagnant air. She finished her stale bread and water before she finished starving. Helen could not remember how she had gotten here, only waking up to black. Time passed. Helen could only guess how long it had been by the length of her fingernails, that had broken in the cracks of the door and grown back brittle. The rat without a tail returned as Helen sat motionless. At first, the bravery of the rat shocked her but as she held it, she realized it had no choice. The rat was starved and skeletal. It fought weakly for a moment before surrendering to Helen's grip. Helen snapped its neck with a thumb and wept for it. The wrist healed wrong and the crack in the wall grew. She wasn't sure if it was resolve or boredom that made her continue, knowing it was hopeless. Rat bones carved lines in the crumbling concrete and after those wore down, Helen used callused fingertips. Her captor came and went with no set pattern. Helen kept trying to communicate as they refused to acknowledge her. Always shining the light. She starved on the meager bread and soon began to feel like the rat without a tail. Helen's hatred grew and she stopped caring *why*. She couldn't be certain her captor was even human and it had treated her worse than an animal. Helen shook. Her joints ached as she held herself up against the wall. She waited. Helen wondered if waiting for nothing was a contradiction and felt comfort knowing her wait would soon be over no matter the outcome. Eventually, the familiar sound of the door's mechanism woke her from a trance. Straining to see through a sliver in her eyelids, she waited for the figure to enter. The intensity of the light made Helen reel but she caught a glimpse of her captor's silhouette. Helen lunged at the figure, who collapsed weakly to the floor. "Why!" Helen screamed, over and over as she clawed at her captor, who was still shining the light in Helen's eyes. They did not fight back and still kept completely silent. Even now they could not acknowledge Helen and this infuriated her even more. Moments passed although Helen realized moments were subjective and she had no frame of reference. She stood and the figure remained motionless on the floor. The light still shined. Helen felt along the wall for the door and left frantically, pushing it shut behind her. She exited into a hallway with a single flickering neon light. Eventually, her eyes adjusted and she was finally able to see. Her arms were caked in blood, concrete dust and crossed with scars. The wrist that had broken was discolored and twisted. She was emaciated and broken but she was alive. Water dripped onto Helen's head and she noticed a small crack in the ceiling. The hallway ended with an identical door and Helen proceeded towards it. In the center of the hallway Helen found a small door-less room. Inside was a shelf that held nearly a full loaf of the stale bread she had been fed. As Helen choked it down her dry throat, she noticed a large hole in an upper corner of the room. Helen continued down the hallway and lifted the latch to the door opposite her cell. As it opened, the hallway filled with the same intense light that her captor had used. Helen screamed and shielded her eyes as she pushed the door closed again. Believing she had gotten turned around, she ran down the hallway to the other door and opened it cautiously. A faint glow emanated from the crack in the door and as it opened fully, she saw the being she had known as her captor still face down on the floor. Their flesh gave off a light that was fading slowly. Confused, Helen approached the figure cautiously and tested it with a kick. Confident they were dead, Helen turned them over. Helen ignored the light as she recognized their face but could not quite place it. Then, Helen saw the being's wrist. It had been broken and healed in the same position as hers. Helen stood over her own body, nearly starved beyond recognition. A husk of herself. In shock, she backed into the hallway slowly as she tried to convince herself it was a hallucination. Helen returned to the light filled room and, with closed eyes, began to feel along the walls for an exit. She felt no other doorway but refused to believe it until she had circled the room several times. She only felt the same rough concrete walls from her cell. On her last pass, Helen tripped over something placed against the wall that she recognized as a bucket identical to the one she had been using. Feeling the wall directly above where it was placed, Helen found what she expected; a hole carved into the concrete. The mouth was wider and it continued further than the one Helen had carved. Helen felt around the edges and was confident she could fit. Without hesitation, she accepted her insanity and pulled herself in. The light persisted through the claustrophobic tunnel forcing Helen to keep her eyes closed as she crawled. She felt a smooth edge in the concrete ahead and eventually squeezed through to a gap in the wall. This small space seemed to exist for ventilation, though the air was still stagnant. The tunnel narrowed as Helen inched forwards and her body soon blocked all the light coming from the room as she found herself stuck. She opened her eyes. The tunnel continued several feet and ended with another hole carved into the corner. It was faintly illuminated by the pattern of the hallway's flickering neon light. And she watched it flicker for what felt like forever.


Felix Maratosa was what one would call a man of the road. Just like the Roger Miller tune, he was king of the road. Haunting the ophidian 101 highway, Felix had spent his life traveling north of south like a tumbleweed traveling on the whim of the wind. My name is Salvatore Rossini or just plain Sal owner of Sal’s Cafe just outside of Crescent City, California where we serve the best burger on the Pacific West Coast. Felix will come in about once every few weeks on his way to wherever the wind happens to be blowing. We will sit and talk about his big adventures since we last chatted. Most of the time he talks about the lonely stretches of road where he stands with his thumb extended and facing the wind and rain blowing in from the sea. We have a few laughs and reminisce about past days when being king of the road was considered an honorable occupation. I was once one of those kings until I met Rosa, got married and became a respectable businessman. Still there are times when I find myself longing for my old ways. Things have changed since the last time I stuck out my thumb or jumped into an empty boxcar. But when he told me about the house of shadows, I knew my drifting days were done. About three months ago Felix Maratosa told me about the place up past Rio Dell. Once Rio Dell was a popular campsite back a few decades ago when there were still real Hippies, but times change and some of the campsites were left to nature. Up on a hill there was this farmhouse that had been left to rot and decay over time. After a long day on the road carrying his sleeping bag, Felix saw the farmhouse and headed toward it as shelter for the night. When you are king of the road, you are drawn to deserted places to shelter in for the night. Even though it had appeared to have been abandoned for quite some time, the overall structure was still quite sturdy and did not seem to pose a threat of collapsing any time soon. “What’s your name?” He heard a voice in the deepening dusk that made him turn around and when he did, there was nobody there. “Looks like one of those hobos.” Another voice commented. “Like the ones that used to come around during the Depression.” “Yeah, yeah, they would camp up on the hill.” Yet another voice added. Under most circumstances, a rational man would continue onward, but Felix was not known to be a rational man. After spending most of his life on the road, the rational part of his brain was just about all used up. Beggars can't be choosers he reasoned as he opened the creaky door. When he stepped inside the door, he noticed that there was furniture, none of it appeared to be functional, but just the presence of what was once somebody’s belongings was still quite a revelation. Most of these abandoned houses had been stripped of anything that could be useful. “Welcome.” It must be the wind he reasoned even though he clearly heard the word spoken aloud. Pulling out the eclectic battery powered lamp, he pushed the toggle and instantly the room was illuminated. Having light is a great comfort to a king of the road, but what he saw was far from comforting. As the light filled the dark room, the wall filled with shadows. Normally shadows are formed when someone or something gets between the light source and the wall, but there was nothing in the room besides Felix. He just stood there, mouth agape, staring at the shadows congregated on the wall, each of them moving without substance or form. There was a faint hint of music that sounded like old Tin Pan Alley and it appeared that the shadows were moving to the music. Yes, it appeared that the shadows were dancing. “Oh this gin is so rough.” A voice commented as female laughter followed. “Brewed it myself in the bathtub this afternoon.” Another voice sounded. “Who are you people?” Felix called out feeling a cold river running up his spine. “Did somebody say something? Chet, who was that rude person?” It was a woman’s voice. “Darling, I have no clue.” A man’s voice responded. Felix pulled out his baseball bat that he carried with him for protection and held it in his hands as if he was getting ready to hit a fastball. “This ain’t right.” He hissed, gripping the bat even tighter. “It happened so long ago.” Another disembodied voice was heard. “I mixed the gin the way I always had.” This voice sounded apologetic. “I don’t know what could have gone wrong.” “You used rat poison for fermentation, perhaps.” Each voice seemed to come from a different place in the room. The music played on. It was a bubbly tune right out of the Roaring Twenties. “It was an accident.” “But when the police came, it was too late. Most of us were deceased.” Felix swung his bat, “What are you talking about?” “Christmas party, 1925.” “Prohibition.” “We had to make our own.” “Some of us were still learning how.” “Some of us were careless.” “Who are you people?” Felix was frantic. “All that’s left of us are these shadows on the wall. Doomed to dance the dances we did back then.” His next swing he hit his lamp full on, knocking it across the room. When it hit the wall, the light went out. “Now what did you do that for?” Felix could feel a breeze on his face that made him flinch. Even without the light, Felix sensed that the shadows on the wall were still there and he began to feel ill at ease. “Do you dance, handsome.” A phantom finger ran under his chin. He jumped when he felt the eerie sensation. “Handsome? Who are you?” He swung the bat again in the dark. “My name is Evelyn. I was single. I was just twenty three. They found me by the stairs over there.” Felix saw the stairs even in the dark. The steps were painted white and shown in the scant moonlight. “The pain was terrible, you know.” Evelyn ran her finger around his ear and once again he jumped. She had no substance. She was nothing more than a shadow. They were all shadows. It was a house of shadows, but even without light they were there as if it was Christmas 1925 all over again. “I drank a lot and threw up blood.” A voice replied in his left ear. “My name is Nick, what’s yours?” “Felix.” He answered. “I went to Harvard, you know.” Nick chuckled. “Nick, I can’t even see you right now.” Felix gripped his bat ready to swing at Nick. “Silly chap, I am just a shadow you can’t see or strike with your bat.” He laughed, but the laugh sounded like it came from a very evil place. Felix swung his bat and shattered a lamp that was on an end table. He doubted the lamp had been used in over fifty years. “Someone will have to clean up that mess.” A woman said indignantly. “Where are you going?” Nick asked Felix as he picked up his bag. “Away from here.” He answered. “Don’t go.” Nick whined, “It’s been so long since we’ve had someone new join us.” “But you are all dead.” Felix blurted out. “It’s all my fault. I’m Oliver. I brewed the gin.” “Oliver, you really screwed up.” Felix opened the door. “Where will you go?” Evelyn asked, running her fingers through his greasy hair. Felix pulled away from her. “You can’t leave.” Someone said from across the room. “Why not? You people are just shadows on the wall.” Felix sihed. He was tired and the thought of facing the elements out on that deserted road where the wind blew an icy rain over everything that had no shelter. “It’s cold out there. You don’t belong in that.” Evelyn's voice was soothing and brought Felix to a pause. When she was alive, Felix pictured Evelyn as charming and seductive. Nick would not be a friend of his with his Ivy League manners, but even with his upper crust etiquette, there was something endearing about the young man. Even Oliver, the one who had unintentionally killed them all from drinking his poison bathtub gin seemed like a decent sort. “You know, a few years ago, I hung out in Haight. One of the guys cut some heroine. Now I don’t ride the horse, but a lot of my friends did and by the morning six of them had overdosed.” Felix had never told anyone that story. He was so ashamed, he walked out without reporting it to the authorities. He didn’t trust them anyway, but he was always weighed down by the guilt of it all. “You poor man.” Evelyn comforted him. “Yeah, that’s rough.” Nick said sympathetically. The music stopped. “Hey, look, I didn’t mean to ruin your party.” Felix bowed his head. “Our party was ruined almost a hundred years ago.” Oliver sighed heavily. “So what’s your deal?” Felix asked. “We are what’s left of this celebration. We all planned to come out to California for the holidays to get away from our families and really kick up our heels, but now you have seen what happened to us.” Chet chuckled. “We thought we had our whole lives ahead of us, but that did not happen.” Cindy sat on the arm of the couch next to Felix who was still holding his bag. “After the war and the epidemic, we wanted to have a blow out to celebrate our youth and vitality.” Oliver smiled or so it seemed since he was only a shadow. “What is ironic is that most people spend their lives as shadows. They walk through their lives as only a shadow of what they were meant to be. We were determined not to be like that, but as you can see, it didn’t work out so well for us.” Evelyn let out a small giggle. “In the end we were no better than what we tried not to be.” “Back when we were young, we thought we’d live forever.” Chet’s voice seemed to float away in the wind. “That didn’t turn out like we planned.” Cindy nodded. “At least here we can get together every night and relive what was taken from us. We never expected anyone else would ever join us.” Oliver added. “Well, I have no intention of joining you.” Felix looked around the dark room and in the moonlight that was peeking through the window, he noticed the cobwebs hanging from the window frames. “My journey still continues.” “We’d ask you to take us with you, but as soon as the sun comes up we all disappear as if we never were.” Cindy said with a catch in her voice. “It reminds us of who and what we are. Sometimes I wish that the sun wouldn't rise in the morning, but it always does. It always does.” Felix gave what she had said some consideration. He had never thought about shadows before, how they can only exist if there is someone connected to them, but once the person is no longer there, neither is the shadow. Each of them had lost their substance, they were all confined to this house of shadows, a house that wasn’t meant for occupation. “You wouldn’t mind if we continued our party?” Chet asked as the music started playing again. “There is a room upstairs. You can close the door while we continue to dance.” “Sure...sure.” He nodded and took his bag up the stairs, into the bedroom and then closed the door behind him. He could hear the music muffled behind the closed door. In only a few short minutes he was asleep and dreaming strange dreams of what he had encountered. The next morning he awoke as the sun was making its first appearance over the horizon. He slept well, so well he had nearly forgotten the shadows from the night before. Walking slowly down the stairs, he saw the lamp still lying shattered on the floor. Glancing at the flowery wallpaper, there was not a single shadow to be seen anywhere that resembled the silhouette of a human being other than his own. “Hello.” He waved to his own shadow feeling silly, his shadow waved back. He would leave and start walking up the road to where he saw a small greasy spoon facing the bay. With ten dollars in his pocket, he figured he’d have enough for a good breakfast. With any luck he’d be in the Bay area where he could panhandle some real cabbage before finding a comfortable place in the park to spend the night, but nights could be cold in San Francisco. What did Mark Twain once say? Oh yeah, “the coldest winter I ever had was the summer I spent in San Francisco.” Still he would make the best of it. Before leaving he sat on the porch. Rolling some tobacco in some rolling papers, he lit himself a cigarette before hitting the road. It was a good omen when he saw a string of semis roll down the road. He tossed the match and began his walk toward the road. On his first try, one of the truckers pulled over and let him in the passenger’s side of the rig. The driver’s name was Horace and he was running coast to coast on a run of building material. He was from Cleveland and he could not stop talking about the Indians until he rolled up to a truck stop just outside of San Francisco. They parted ways and Felix walked the ten miles to the city. He worked a corner of Mission and 16th Street where he made some good coin and decided to find a bus to Golden Gate National Recreation Area where he bought a San Francisco Chronicle newspaper that he could use as a pillow. When he opened his bag, a letter slipped out. He pulled it from a yellowing envelope. Dear Felix, Thank you for coming by and spending the time with us. It does get sort of lonely at times, but having you come join us was a real highlight to our celebration. Each of the shadows had signed the letter. He stretched out on a bench where he could see the harbor lights. A low fog was settling in, but there was a streetlight overhead. Unfolding the paper, his eyes fell on an article that read, “Old House in Rio Dell burns to the ground.” He thought about his discarded match. Surely as it fell the wind blew it out. Surely. What if it hadn’t? What if it sparked in the dry grass around the porch? There would be no more parties. The house of shadows would no longer exist. The next morning he headed north buying a bus ticket with the money he had panhandled. As the bus passed Rio Dell, he saw a big black spot where the house of shadows had once stood. He knew that he was responsible for the fire. There was nothing that could be done. When he got to my café, I served him lunch and listened to his bizarre story. Most of the time, I don’t put much stock in what these kings of the road tell me, but I could see in his eyes, he was telling me the truth. I nodded a lot, but the detail to his story was so real, I knew he had seen something paranormal in that house. Say what you will, there are some things that cannot be so easily explained, if you know what I mean.


Aroa stared into the crimson sunlight as the glowing star ducked down into the water. It was evening, and she was tired. But that didn’t stop our heroine from crying her eyes out, as she had done each day for the past several years. Sometimes, she was happy, but for most of the time, she felt nothing but sadness and doubt. After everything that had happened to her, she knew her story was over, that there was nothing left to be told. That she would always be the villain in a tale that felt as old as time. Aroa cried harder, trying desperately not to sleep. When she slept, the nightmares came. They showed her her truth, as she saw it. How she had failed to to save herself, her family, her world. Not the world as she knew it, but her own little world she lived in, surrounded by the people she loved. She remembered the darkness of the poison as it went into her system, and the cold voice of her former best friend as it did. “You brought this on yourself, Aroa,” she remembered Katia saying. “This is all you.” Oh, Katia. Aroa’s best friend, once. In another life. She remembered Katia well. She remembered laughing together when they were younger, and crying together when they were older. She remembered sparing and gigging when they could defeat each other with ease. She remembered when they held hands at night as they walked towards the moon, hoping the glowing light would stay with them forever. Katia, her sister, her best friend, was gone, and it was all the fault of Aroa. Not dead, just gone forever from her life. But it was a fate worse than death, being haunted by the ghosts of her past mistakes forever. It was Aroa’s curse, to live on the edge of happiness for the rest of her life. Aroa sighed, thinking about this curse, and what it meant for her. How she’d never truly see her great friend in her life again. How she was gone, oh, she was gone, and it was all built up and thrown on Aroa’s back, forcing her to carry this burden for the rest of her life. She thought again about the moon, and how it gently rocked the ocean to and fro, calming down the storms of the world. How it lit up the night, accompanied by the faint stars in the sky. She thought about how it kept the sun in balance with the Earth, holding together the world. And she thought just maybe, for a moment, that things could be alright with her heart, her mind, and her old friend. But then she remembered the poison, once again, and its prickly feeling through her throat. “Katia-” she remembered whispering. “Help me.” But Katia didn’t help. She had a look of dread, a look of worry plastered all over her face, but she never helped. All Aroa could do in what felt like her final moments was cry, and it seemed that Katia felt the same, though she didn’t show it. Katia never cried. She bottled her feelings down so deep, they could never be found. When something brought them out, they ravished, however, and tore down her own little world. Aroa was different. She always had her feelings with her, and let them out too often. It was a difference between them that was always there, but never mattered, for Aroa would always understand Katia’s pain, and vice versa. The two friends would always be able to understand each other. Until, suddenly, they couldn’t. The pain became too strong, so strong that there was just no way for either of them to live in the same world. And so Katia tried to end Aroa’s life, just like back in the day, when the two would spar, but without the giggles of triumph. There was no triumph here, only layers and layers of sorrow, being peeled away to reveal raw emotion, emotion that could never be concealed again. “This is all you,” Aroa remembered, thinking about the last words directed towards her from Katia. The last words she might ever know from there doomed friendship. “This is all you.” And it was all her, in Katia’s eye’s, Aroa thought. She would always be the villain to Katia’s story, just like Katia would be the hero. But Katia would never be Aroa’s villain, because Aroa would always remember her by the old times, and she would always respect her, no matter everything she had done. She would always care for her best friend. Aroa would always respect her best friend, but she would never have closure, she realized, with a jolt. There would never be room in her life for Katia ever again. Or at least, she didn’t think so. Not after the poison. Not after Amelie. Amelie was Aroa’s real sister, not like Katia. She was sweet, kind, gentle - everything an older sister could ask for. She was a handful at times, but that was okay. It would always be okay, after she was taken away from Aroa, as well. Aroa had never seen Amelie again after the day of the poisoning, but she knew that it was her fault. She knew deep down that she was responsible for it all, just like with Katia. She knew it was all on her. Amelie had sided with Katia. She knew it, and she knew she’d never change her mind. Amelie had always loved Katia as a sister, as well, so naturally she had no trouble choosing against her own family. But it didn’t stop Aroa from caring. She would always care. She would always love Amelie, and Katia, as well. She would love them until the day she died, despite the poisoning, despite their falling out, despite whatever happened to Amelie. She would always love them. And with that, Aroa realized, it was time to make amends. After all that Katia had done, she could never forgive her, but she would always love her, so she needed confrontation. She needed to know why. With shaking hands, Aroa walked towards where Katia lived, sweating furiously. When the second girl answered the door, there was nothing but an awkward silence between them. Between the former friends, who had not seen each other in so long. Between two people who once loved each other fiercely and now only felt sorrow. Aroa once again remembered the moon, and how it rocked the waters gently. “Why did you do it?” she asked, tentatively. “Why poison me?” Katia was shaking now, too. With her trembling hands, she closed the door. But Aroa could hear her crying from the other side. Katia never cried. When she did, it meant something meant a lot. This wasn’t the closure Aroa wanted, but it was enough. She knew she meant something to Katia. That it wasn’t just hate, but somewhere, deep down, there was sorrow in Katia’s cries, and somewhere in that sorrow, there was love. The moon shined ever so slightly brighter as Aroa started her walk home, no thoughts of Katia, her dear former friend, weighing her down. For once, Aroa was free.


You are walking in the Tractor Supply parking. You frequent this store for your bird seed every week. It's been 4 months since you've been going and for a while now there's been a mysterious Van in the back of the parking lot. **Chapter 2:** You have chosen to investigate! You come up to the van only to discover a rancid smell of decaying flesh and mouthwash. You can tell someone was trying to mask something here... You go to the back of the van and see the door is unlocked. You open it (of course). You go inside the van to see a decaying body. It is a man's. But it's too far gone to distinguish any identifying features. It's the worst smell you've ever smelt. What do you do? **Chapter 3:** You check the body for a wallet. All you find in the wallet is a used condom, 37 pesos, a package of blunt wraps, and a prepaid debit card. You are unable to find anything to identify this man. You are confused why this man doesn't have an I.D., credit card, license etc. In his wallet. Did he not want to be found? You then recall that you smelled mouthwash when you approached the van. Your overwhelming confusion has blinded you to the fact that it's still there. You decide to search the rest of the van. Where do you look? **Chapter 4:** You give up and decide to go home. What are you supposed to do? You don't know who the hell this guy is and don't know any other way of figuring it out. You head toward the back doors of the hot, smelly van and open them. You exit the van only to find it's dark out. You've only been in there for 5 minutes?? Then you realize... It was already dark out. The fumes from the carcass must've messed with your sense of time. You get in your car and leave. You go home. Your drive home was very quiet. There was no other traffic on the road. It's late. And you are very tired. You brush your teeth, shower, take off your watch and go to bed. But you can't help but think who that man was. Has he been there as long as the van has? Was he murdered? Suicide? You can't sleep. You need to sleep. **Chapter 5:** You light up, eat some chips, set your alarm at 7:00am for work tomorrow, then go to sleep. Beep beep. It's your alarm. Time for work. You are on time for your linemen job. You are traveling to Grove City today to work on a downed line. You and your work buddy leave at 8:00am. You light up on your way to Grove City on the way there while your buddy drives. You love weed. You are always high. You get to GC, finish your job, smoke while your at it. You work best when your high (who doesn't?😂). You finish the job and head back to Clarion. Shit. You didnt get your birdseed last night. Okay, no big deal. Go back to Tractor Supply and get the bird seed. Your buddy does't mind. You arrive. Exit the car. Of course you look in the corner of the parking lot. The van's not there. You're freaked and get back in the truck. “What's wrong?" Your buddy asks. "Nothing, I'm fine. I just realized they don't get the bird seed shipment until tomorrow, lol" you say. You eventually arrive home. Maybe you're just high and paranoid. What do you do? **Chapter 6:** You smoke more weed. (No surprise there you fucking stoner) You chill at home, alone and high. It's a Friday night. You don't even have a pet. But you don't seem to mind. You go to the basement and work on your adirondack chair that you have in your wood shop. You are a great craftsman (plus, you work best when you're high). You were commissioned to make a lawn set for a family in Rochester, New York. You want to make this nice. You only have 1 chair and a picnic table left to make. They are expecting this set tomorrow evening. They want to have it ready for their annual neighborhood Jesus picnic. This is a big deal. You know you have a lot of work ahead and are pressed for time. Good thing you smoked. You'd be watching Little House on the Prairie forgetting all about this shit right now. You smoke and work through the night. The set it complete. Luckily, your boss let you borrow his moving truck to haul everything up. You go to sleep. It is 4:00am you are still baked. You are always baked. You wake up at noon later that day. You are in no rush. You chill out and smoke some weed (no way). You are leaving at 3:00pm. You start loading the set into the truck. Four chairs and two tables. This is going to be a lot of lifting. Thank God the truck has a lifter. Everything is in and secure. It is 2:30pm and you have a five hour drive ahead. What do you do? **Chapter 7:** You choose not to smoke (a genuine surprise). Due to your high tolerance you have already come down from your earlier smoke sesh. It is time to drive. You are driving up to Rochester. You gotta piss. Man, you gotta piss bad. You stop at a rest stop to piss. It is 5:30pm. You start to feel sick while pissing. Not shortly after, you puke your brains out for a whole fifteen minutes. Why are you puking so much? You are a mess. You gather yourself and leave the rest stop. Your breath smells awful. WHAT THE FUCK! You discover your car is being robbed. You yell at the thief and chase him off. You are able to see his face. He is a Latino man. Very tall. Like 6 ft. 7. This dude's a giant. He runs though (pussy) and drives off...very slowly. You are able to record his license plate number "WIYSP-YAFTN" "That's a weird plate, no numbers. Stupid fucker. Don't rob my shit." You call the police and give them the plate number. They ask for the make and model. "Uhh, it was a black truck. That's all I remember." They tell you that vehicle and plate are not in the system. They ensure you they'll keep looking. You don't have much confidence in them. This phone call has been at least ten minutes. This stop has been longer than planned. You need to deliver this furniture. You still feel like shit. You head back on the road. The rest of the drive took two and a half hours, you're behind on schedule. You finally get to the house. "Hey! You're pretty early!" Said Isaac, the dad of the family. You thought you were about a half hour late. You look at your watch. It's 5:30pm "Someone laced that fucking weed" you think to yourself. "I could've swore I was late as shit. I must be tripping" You disregard this incident and let it go. You unload the furniture and get paid. Your job is complete. “Hey man." Isaac says. "Wanna stay for the party tomorrow? We got an extra guest room? We'd love to have you." You're tired as shit. **Chapter 8:** “Yeah, man. I'll stay" you say. "But I don't have any overnight stuff." "That's okay" says Isaac "I have plenty of clothes." "Oh...okay" You respond. "I guess I'm wearing his clothes, then" you think to yourself. "Want a snack?" asks Isaac. "Wife made brownies" "Brownies sound good" you say. And eat 7. Isaac laughs. He's a weird guy. "Come see my family" says Isaac. "I'd love you to meet them." You and Isaac walk into the living room. "Everybody! This is Christian." (That's your name) "Hello, Christian" they all say. In perfect unison. "Christian" says Isaac. "This is my wife, Wendy. And our kids, Alex, Scotty and Paige. "Hello" you say. You are uneasy. You hangout with the family for the night. Play some Monopoly and the kids go to bed. You, Isaac, and Wendy are still up, watching Treehouse Masters. "So, Christian...we've got a question for you" says Wendy. “Would you be interested in a threesome with Isaac and I?" **Chapter 9:** You freaky fuck! You barely even know these people. Plus they're fucking weird. "Whatever, let's do it!" You are overcome with an intense amount of excitement for this. You don't feel sick anymore. You haven't felt sick for a while now... "GREAT!" Isaac exclaims. "Can't wait to watch you fuck my wife! Up to the bedroom we go!!" You all walk up to their bedroom. It's a typical looking room. Except for one thing, the clocks. There are 3 different clocks in the room. "Why are there three clocks?" You think to yours- \*lock\* That was the noise of Isaac locking the door. What the fuck is going on? You freak. You run for the door and try and open it. That shit's locked. Your not leaving. "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!?" You scream at them. "Calm down, father" they both say in unison. "Father?? What the fuck?! I'm not your dad! I'm younger than you! You sick fucks!" Wendy puts a fourth clock on the wall. "The fuck you doing with that clock, bitch!?" You yell at Wendy. "Where's Isaac?" You think to yourself. You smell something...minty. You are in a pickle, what do you do now? **Chapter 10:** You run into the bathroom to find Isaac pouring massive amounts of mouthwash into the tub. It is almost full. You run to kick him. But are grabbed by a man. It's not Isaac. You can tell this man is big. You look behind you. It's the thief. He take you and dunks you into the mouthwash tub. You pass out. You wake up. In the same bathroom. No one is there. You walk out to the bedroom. The clocks are gone. So are Wendy and Isaac. The man is on the bed... Smoking a bong. "What the fuck is going on and who the fuck are you!?!?" You are mad. "Calm down, father." He says. "What the fuck is this father shit!? I'm not a dad! I'm single, and have no kids. Or pets! I'm a loser!" "Exactly" tall man says. "You were the perfect candidate" "For what?" "You are the next Father Time. You have been for a couple days now." “What do you mean?" You ask. "I have transmitted my powers to you. We have met before." You hear a car noise from outside. "Look outside in the parking lot. he says." You look. It's the van. "What the fuck! That's the van!" You say (yell). "And it was me in it" he says. "My name is Jesus." "What do you mean?" You ask. "I have transmitted my powers to you. We have met before. I was the one in the van." "But you were a rotted carcass!" "Yes, and no. That was my Father Time form" he says" My 673 years have passed. My tenure of Father Time has ended and I needed to transmit the powers on to the next competent candid." "But, how did you do that??" Jesus throws you a book. "This is everything you need to know. I am the third keeper of time. I have paid my dues and now you are the fourth keeper of time." You read aloud "in order to transmit powers to the next, the next keeper must have an unpleasant experience of your Father form." "You smelled my rotten flesh" Jesus said. "I think that did the trick. You now have the responsibility of controlling time for the next 673 years until you pass it on the to next. Just like I did. Just like Bambone the 2nd and Moses the 1st." "Moses? Like Bible Moses?" You ask "Yes" says Jesus "Woah. And Bambone?" "He was a Viking." "Shit" "Yeah" You are still curious. You have so many questions. **Chapter 11:** "What about the weed?" You ask. "The most important part" Jesus replies. "You must always be high for now on. If you are not high, then time distorts. This is due to the chrono**-**transmitter that developed in your brain. You smelling my dead body released the toxins in your brain to create the transmitter." He says "it is solely powered by THC. If you go three hours without weed. You will become very sick." "I puked my brains out at a rest stop on the way here" you say. "Is that because I didn't smoke?" "Precisely" Jesus replies. "Shit. So for he next 673 years I am condemned to a life of being a stoner and the ultimate timelord? How will I keep this a secret? What happens when I don't die??" "You are Father Time now." Jesus replies. "You will figure it out. Everything you need to know is in the book. Thank you and good luck:)" Jesus vanished. You aim to leave the room. Both doors are locked. What do you do?? **Chapter 12:** You notice the 4 clocks on the walls. "Well, I am Father Time now. These things are like...my weapons? Fuck it, let's give it a shot." You go up to one, take it off the wall and violently shake it. "Come on! Work! You piece of shit!" It does nothing. You look on the back. There are words. "FATHER OF TIME: MOSES THE FOUNDER OF THE TIMELORDS ACTIVATION DATE: Year 0 TERMINATION DATE: Year 673 WHEN JESUS WAS BORN, GOD DID NOT JUST ENTRUST HIS SON AS THE SAVIOR. BUT MOSES WITH THE GIFT OF TIME. HE WAS THE FIRST TO CARRY THE RESPONSIBILITY: THE ORIGINAL TIMEKEEPER." "Woah, so that's how Moses came to be. I guess God didn't wanna control time and bequeathed it upon Moses." “These next ones should be Bambone's and Jesus’” As they were. You go up to the second clock and read the back. "FATHER OF TIME: BAMBONE THE VIKING ACTIVATION DATE: 673 TERMINATION DATE : 1,346 "THE LAZIEST VIKING OF THEM ALL, BAMBONE DID NOTHING FOR HIS TRIBE AND SMOKE HASH ALL DAY. ONE DAY, IN WHAT IS NOW NORTHERN RUSSIA, MOSES WAS ON HIS TRAVELS TO FIND THE NEXT KEEPER. HE CAME ACROSS A VIKING TRIBE. HE WAS CONFRONTED BY THE HEAD VIKING, CHARGED WITH TRESPASSING, AND WAS ORDERED TO BE BEHEADED. MOSES, KNOWING THIS WOULDN'T HAVE WORKED ANYWAY, PLAYED ALONG. THE TRIBE ORDERED BAMBONE TO BEHEAD MOSES THE NEXT MORNING. THE NEXT DAY BAMBONE SLEPT IN AND FORGOT ALL ABOUT THE EXECUTION CEREMONY. MOSES TOOK ADVANTAGE OF THIS SITUATION AND BIT BAMBONE'S EAR OFF. WITH THAT BITE, HIS POWERS WERE TRANSFERRED." “lol, Moses Mike Tyson'd his ass." You chuckled. You are so funny. "Okay, now time for Jesus'" "FATHER OF TIME: JESUS THE FARMER (pronounced hay-soos) "He was a farmer?" "ACTIVATION DATE: 1,346 TERMINATION DATE: 2,019 JESUS WAS A SIMPLE SPANISH FARMER WHO LIVED IN SPAIN. WITH NEWS OF THE BLACK PLAGUE HE TRAVELED TO MEXICO TO START A NEW LIFE. UNABLE TO SUSTAIN FINANCIAL STABILITY AND HAVING TO HIDE HIS SEXUALITY FROM EVERYONE HE FELL INTO A DEEP DEPRESSION. WITH HIS FARMING EXPERIENCE, JESUS STARTED TO GROW CANNABIS. HE GREW THIS ONLY FOR HIM. HE LOVED IT SO MUCH. MEANWHILE, BAMBONE THE VIKING WAS IN SEARCH OF A NEW TIME KEEPER FOR HE KNEW HIS TIME WAS RUNNING UP. IN MEXICO CITY, HE WENT TO THE LOCAL SPANISH PUB AFTER A LONG DAY OF SEARCHING. ON THIS VERY DAY THERE WAS AN ATTEMPTED ROBBERY ON THE PUB. A LOCAL TRIED STEALING A WATER BARREL. BAMBONE WENT TO HELP. THE THIEF EXPRESSED HIS REGRET AND EXPLAIN HOW SAD HE IS. BAMBONE KNEW THIS WAS HIS CHANCE. BAMBONE OFFERED TO HELP. THE THIEF TOOK HIM BACK TO HIS HOME TO DEMONSTRATE HIS POOR LIFESTYLE. BAMBONE SEEMED VERY ENTICED...A LITTLE BIT TOO ENTICED. THE THIEF TRIED TO KISS BAMBONE. BAMBONE BEAT HIM WITH HIS CLUB. HE THEN BROKE HIS LEG THUS, TRANSFERRING HIS TIMEKEEPING POWERS. POOR GUY. BUT BAMBONE HAD TO DO WHAT HAD TO BE DONE. HE LEFT THE BOOK. EXPLAINED WHAT HAPPENED, AND VANISHED. THAT THIEF WAS TIMEKEEPER 3: JESUS” (obviously) **Chapter 13:** "FUCK, timekeepers are fucking dicks!" You exclaim. "Now on to mine, I guess." "FATHER OF TIME: CHRISTIAN THE LINEMEN ACTIVATION DATE: 2,019 PROJECTED TERMINATION DATE: 2,692" Then you know what happened. You realize you are unable to escape with these clocks. So you must go out the way you came in, the bathtub mouthwash portal. You submerge yourself in the mouth wash. You pass out and wake up. You are back in the room. Wendy and Isaac are there. They explain how they were Jesus' time servants. And how You will be assigned your own after one year. They wish you good luck. And vanish. You leave the house, grab your blunt from the truck, roll it. And continue with your life. You must learn how to harness these powers.


Hello fellow writers. I pose the question, as today I am dealing with some personal family stuff and was thinking about writing something. However, as soon as I put my fingers on the keyboard, my mind literally went blank. I usually have no problem at least getting some words down and starting a story, even if I decide it's garbage after a little bit. But today I can't even get an idea out of my currently useless brain. So I instead decided to post a little differently than I usually would.


“You must know that you carry the keys to this forest. The key is a human being not yet born, not yet conceived,” the old woman seated on a stool says after noisily blowing the thin tea she has been offered. She is holding a mug with her bony fingers, elbows resting on her thighs. The man and his wife watch her in disbelief. Perplexed, they had welcomed this alien creature earlier when she knocked at their door, walking in the rain when the red sun was setting as it formed a rainbow which ran across the sky touching two horizons like a bow. Never has such a strange natural phenomenon occurred in the Bustani forest. She gives a small shy smile revealing a perfect set of pearl teeth. “Woman, you have the key in your loins. You are so pure and fresh from living and working in Bustani forest; a forest of a thousand rainbows at sunset, nights of fresh moonlight, and darkness one can touch. You breathe plenty of oxygen than all humans. Your mind is uncorrupted and freed from weird thoughts of survival. You wake up every morning with a mission to till the earth for food as you plant more trees where loggers have left their fingerprints. You are the chosen one”, she says turning to the man who is mystified by these tidings wishing that such praises were his. “You have the seed to the key. You are the father of the guard who will make sure that this forest is untouched; that its virgin land is not cultivated and impoverished, or buildings planted by man for his own financial gains. This land is the living thing that breaths life in this country. Streams flow from her ice-capped mountain replenishing the earth, quenching the vegetation and humans’ throats and their animals and sadly, their industrial activities. Finally, these same streams form rivers, and these rivers meander forming deltas where human grow their food before they flow into the sea to manufacture more oxygen”, she sighs as if in pain and swallows her tea hard. They even hear it go down her throat which is tucked inside a hard-pressed wrinkled neck. She continues but this time with more gestures. “The rain my son.... the rain is made here.....here in this forest. We have to redeem her from the corrupt generations that are coming. I foresee a time when the world will not care. I see big concrete pipes where people live recklessly without caring about the earth that feeds them. No garden! No parks to rejuvenate their minds for greed will have pushed them to their limit. Pure ignorance will see them cut boughs while sitting on them .... if you know what I mean”, says she, looking at the man who is becoming unsettled by her prophecy. She gives the man and wife time to ask her questions but they are so shaken and terrified but she understands. They are looking at her back and forth, at each other wondering where she came from. She is a skeleton resembling an old fig tree they have a few yards from their cottage. Her threadbare floral dress has seen many decades while its patterns disappear behind a layer of thick ochre. “What will the key do?” asks the woman realizing that she has a tale to tell in case this soothsayer is talking sense. “She will be the ambassador of nature, a human rights activist and women advocate. She will stand against mighty kings and queens, wrestling with them in the forest, receiving significant injuries but she must not be bowed down. In courts, she will appear with facts and maps of the world clearly showing this green heritage zone but the prejudiced judges will dismiss her cases with costs to please their king. Nevertheless, she should not worry because she is the chosen key that will lock out these narcissists out.” “She?!” asks the man disappointed by the gender of the key. The old woman chuckles loudly, irritating the man who puts his cup of tea down in protest. “Yes son! You heard me right. The key will be a woman and she will be more powerful than a thousand men put together. She will scream out loudest and her cries will be heard overseas. Which man can shout like her?” the old woman laughs again as if to mock him and moves her cold buttress-looking feet caked with brown ochre near the fire. The fire immediately turns them into gold upon which strong luminous flames are reflected. The golden feet fan the fire and flames dance wildly producing sparks that rest on both the man and his wife before bouncing back and disappearing into the hearth. They look at each other bewildered by this magic spell. She clears her throat and continues. “She will be crowned like a princess and a guard of honor will be passed out in different corners of the world during her visits, meeting powerful men and women. Statues will be put up all over the world in her recognition but sadly, none will stand here until her ashes are sprinkled by the Bathi waterfalls.” “What shall I call her?” asks the woman who has finally recovered from shock as if the sparks have taken her plight away. “Call her anything my daughter. Name her according to our customs. Her names will have nothing to do with her role for she is the chosen key. She will eventually decide what names suit her in the international circles. And when she chooses it, no one will take it away from her because that will be her brand, her trademark ingrained in golden letters in this forest. She will be as hard as steel. Her eyes will sparkle like two diamonds resting perfectly on her ebony high cheekbones. She will radiate different smiles; of agony, of power, of humility, of joy, of happiness, of peace, and of love. She will wear green from head to toe and her garments will be made from cotton for she will shun any artificially made substance that spoils the environment”, says the old woman as she stops and sips more tea noisily. “When will she begin her work?” asks the wife in a broken voice. “I cannot tell you everything but all I know is that she will grow just like any other girl; fetching water and firewood, going to school until a time when she will be taken by the international world. She will never be your daughter again for the world will be hers. She will also fight for humanity and equal rights for women. She will at one time enter the ruling chambers of this country but women....women whom she will have fought so hard to uplift, will let her down by not recognizing that she is their chosen liberating vessel from oppressive cultures”, she chuckles once more and continues. “They were right when they said a prophet is never accepted in his own town, didn’t they? However, she will be destined for bigger tasks than a ruler of her country”, the woman says before a fit of endless cough engulfs her. When she regains her calmness, the man asks. “Will there be no men?” her musical laughter provokes the man again forcing him to stand but some mysterious powers have paralyzed his legs. “Son, listen to the voice in your heart. Had you been by the burning bush listening to a thunderclap, you wouldn’t lift your hefty body. Instead, with awe and fear, you would supplicate. But because a filthy-looking old woman is talking to you, you protest and want to leave. Don’t you remember how fast you reacted when I said the key will be a woman? I must warn you because I am not of this world. I am a higher deity to be belittled like that”, she reprimands. In an instance her pupils turn into two live coals from which blue flames dance, forming two balls striking the man’s face catching him unaware terrifying him enough to scream as they disappear into his sockets. “I am sorry mama...so sorry”, says the man, looking confused his hair turning into spikes, standing erect. “The key will also be reminded of her place so many times during her struggles. Women then will be more than men for most men will have perished in the war during her youth”, she stops and takes another sip giving the man another opportunity. “War!” asks the man trembling. “Yes son. War will come and you must fight for this noble cause. You might not see all the stages of the key”, she says, taking another cup of tea that she has requested with gestures. “Freedom must be acquired first to free us from these oppressive rulers. Don’t they bother you when they demand your city entry permit? The city situated in your country whereby, by birthright, you should roam freely! Don’t you?” “It does for sure. It so much does”, answers the man feeling more energetic. He sees injustice he never saw before; Segregation, oppression, slavery, injustice, and cruelty. He remembers how he was shoved by a guard a week before for not producing his permit on time. Furry overcomes him. The woman, contented by the awareness she has created in him continues. “I have equipped and prepared you with bravely enough to become a centurion. You might not be there to witness many things but you will have accomplished your mission. I have to go”, she says and as she closes her eyes, cracks form around her as the hearth closes in, swallowing her leaving no trace of a fault line. “Let’s go to sleep Asante. I don’t know whether what we have witnessed is true but if it is, it is time to make the prophecy come true”, says the man to his wife who is still awe-stricken and afraid to move from her three-legged stool. ******* “I have always told you about the old woman your late father and I saw but every time, you say that we saw nothing; that it was a psychological problem that might have emanated from isolation. She prophesied on the night you were conceived”, says Asante to her daughter Zahara when she pays her a hospital visit. Beside her are her two shaken grandchildren in their youth worried to see their mother bandaged face concealing her left eye and a sling that keeps her broken arm in place. “Mother”, she smiles. How can you tell when conception is taking place unless you are an embryos scientist? You took me to school and I became a scientist. I believe in facts. Apparitions and superstitions are not my things. I am so sorry mother for I always hurt your feelings whenever you bring out this topic”, says she. Before her mother answers, she gives her a hug, worried that her disturbed state of mind over her torture is repeatedly rewinding images in her brain. Over her shoulders, she whispers to her but loud enough to be heard by her children who are keenly listening to the prophecy being revealed to them for the first time. “It is true my child. I am not out of my mind. You will overcome this because foreign powers will be behind you soon. There will be demonstrations everywhere demanding your release. You shall be set free and you will continue with your Kijani Movement. You will be a great woman because you have the key that locks the gates of Bustani forest. You are scaring the leaders right now and even after you win these battles, they will not recognize you but you shouldn’t worry because you are a child of the world. Your statues will mushroom everywhere in every garden of every state that you shall pay a visit after your detractors are defeated. Think my daughter. Think. Think, and ask yourself why as a woman you won a scholarship to study in a world never travelled by any woman of your time. Customs overlooked the woman’s place. Why?” says Zahara’s mother while still stuck in her embrace. “Time’s up!” shouts the military hospital matron who is stalking the family to eavesdrop but very frustrated not to have heard a word. Hell-bent to deny them more time, she separates their union. And as soon as they realize this, they all quickly embrace in a group, crying. Soon, they are escorted out of Gerezani hospital gate with high walls trimmed with laser wires. “What you said was strange. Did you see anything like that grandma? Was it an apparition? Walk us through this please”, the eldest grandchild asks once they are out of sight. “It is true my child. Before your mother was born, this happened and I was skeptical until she started her Kijani movement of planting trees and creating awareness of environmental degradation and human rights. When she was almost beaten to death last month, I knew that I had a duty to encourage her that she is going through a phase in her journey to victory and enthronement. She will be a great woman when she comes out of this muddled situation. Like furnace fire that purifies gold, she will capture the world and leave indelible marks. States all over the world will curve her statues during her lifetime and thereafter, but it will not be until she is gone that they will curve one on the garden that she is being tortured for. She is the chosen one, carrying the key to the environment protection of this paradise.” They finally get to her grandson’s car where she narrates all the happenings of the prophecy night from the beautiful sunset to the disappearance of the old woman. They take her to their home for an overnight stay but the following morning she blatantly reminds them matter-of-factly. “I cannot stand this chaotic well lit noisy city for another night where pollution from industries and cars and corruption and humans and injustice dominates the air. I must go where nightingale sings as the moonlight shines her light to light the night. I have to go where the ground is as soft as wool, where the naked feet walk the walk; where stillness attracts apparitions foretelling stories happening now, where Bathi waterfalls form a thousand rainbows when the red sun sets behind Mount Motomoto across the Bustani forest, sending animals out for hunting.” “Let me take you to bed grandma where you can rest before your journey this afternoon”, says the younger grandchild who leads her to a bedroom overlooking a park where urban birds are chirping. She peers out of the window and is fascinated by the vastness of the Jiji park her daughter is fighting to save. She cannot even see its horizon. Mesmerized by what she sees, her heart melts and a radiant smile like Zahara’s brightens her face. Facing her grandchild, she sheds tears of joy. “So this is what your mama is fighting for? The prophecy is being fulfilled before my own eyes. I wish your grandpa lived to see all this but they killed him during the liberation struggles which set us free from the bondage of colonialism. He was a warrior who fought for the common good, just like your mother is doing now. Take me home now my son. It’s time to go.” ********** “Mama, do you remember that day in the hospital when grandma said that you would become a queen? I wish she was here to see all this. Look mama how the world has made you a victor after overcoming trials and tribulations. Look, mama. Look. Just like grandma said, the world has already crowned you with her highest medal that no woman has ever held in this continent, the Nobel Peace Prize. Look mama the authority you are about to receive now.......”. “Shh! son, science is based on facts. Science liberates you from ignorance. Let's listen to what The Secretary General of the United Nation has to say.” “Professor Zahara Baraka, I declare you the ‘Umoja wa Mataifa’ ambassador of peace with a specific focus on environmental and climate change”, declares Peter Rocks. The two children embrace their mother before she steps out to receive and sign the declaration. In this sweet embrace with the audience cheering in high spirits, the daughter looks at the mother in the eye, tearing and says, “Mama, statues will follow you wherever you go. I believe in the prophecy now!” “This cannot be scientifically proved, my daughter. Nothing like that happened. I did it. I worked so hard for it. How I wish I could have had more time with the two of you my children when you were growing up!” “Don’t worry mama. You were meant for the world. Leaders like you are shared, mama. Go mama go. Go get your crown”, says her daughter followed by thunderclaps from the audience and a standing ovation as she walks down the aisle, her eyes sparkling on her ebony face. Her rosebud lips form different smiles as they get captured by cameras clicking like powerful machine guns held by photojournalists drawn from all over the world.


Sensitive Content Warning: Abuse; Suicide; Mental Health EVERMORE April 4 th , 2030 I wish I could tell Mom and Dad the truth, but it would kill them. The truth is so stupid, too! I hate painting! There! I said it. Especially with Mom. Today, I picked purple instead of red for the flowers I drew. This made Mom cry because Cassy’s favorite color was red. Mom cried so much Dad had to put her to bed. Cassy’s birthday is soon; last year, it stressed out Mom so much that she was hospitalized. Her birthday is the same day as mine because, let’s be real, nothing truly belongs to me. I hope the pressure will ease once my birthday passes. Mom’s health hasn’t been great lately, and Dad is forgetting things. It started as soon as he retired last year, which, at age seventy-six, is really late compared to most people. Dad’s work as a scientist made us rich, according to Mom. She’s nearly as old as him, but unlike Dad, her memory is sharp. Too sharp. It makes my life hell. Still, I’m scared of what will happen to me if they aren’t around. I’m not old enough to live independently. Even worse, I could get taken by the government and forced into experiments, like Dad warned. Every flower I paint has to be red. I have to stick to the saxophone, even though I hate it because that’s what Cassy played. I wish I could become a writer. I stay up late every night, secretly reading books I get from the library and writing in this diary to practice. The other night, Dad caught me and told Mom. Mom shouted at the top of her lungs that Cassy hated reading and took the book from me and ripped it up! Well, she tried to rip it up. Her arthritis is too bad to do any actual damage. I’d die if she took this diary away. It’s the only thing keeping me sane. I guess I’ll just have to lie and say I’m staying late at school for homework so I can read books there in secret. April 9 th , 2030 Yesterday, Mom drove with Ryan and picked me up from school. Everyone thought Ryan was Dad’s equivalent because he’s so old, but I told them he’s just our butler. Didn’t matter. Today, my entire class made fun of me for living with my grandparents, which is pathetic because they’re actually my parents. Not that anyone knows the truth, nor could I ever tell them. Anyway, the class ridiculed me until Mrs. Elliot walked in and caught them. Mrs. Elliot reported everything to the headteacher, who reported it to my parents. This bougie private school takes bullying seriously. I was relieved until I got home and Mom yelled, Cassy was bullied . While she never agreed with it, it taught Cassy empathy, which she worries I lack. Then she mentioned making me switch schools again. “A public one,” Mom said, because apparently, bullying is worse there. I tried not to cry because Cassy never cried, but I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears and ran into my room and slammed the door. Dad came up not long after. He was out of breath by the time he reached the top of the stairs, his gray hair askew, as it often is. His thick glasses had smudges on them. He sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my bedroom wall for a long time. “These posters are old,” he mumbled, looking at one of Justin Bieber’s concerts in 2009. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to scream, please let me take them down , but I didn’t want to send him into a spiral. “After Cassy’s birthday--sorry, your birthday--we could take down some of these old posters. What do you think?” I hesitated, not knowing if this was a trick. The fading, crumpled Justin Bieber poster stared back at me, daring me to say something I’d regret. Honestly, I don’t get why everyone was so obsessed with him back then. Cassy loved him, apparently. “Once the birthday passes, you’ll have made it past an important milestone, and I think it’s fair to say it’s time for you to make your own decisions.” His eyes glazed over a bit, and his mouth fell open like it always does when he spaces out. “Ok,” I said. That’s all I’ll ever say. If I’m too rebellious, Dad will think I’m a failure. I’ve never asked what happens if I fail. I don’t want to know. “What was that?” he asked, his cataract-filled eyes glazed over. “Oh, dear, it’s late. Are you hungry? Did we eat?” I held back my tears, said I would grab food, and headed to the kitchen for snacks. Thankfully, Mom was asleep. Now I’m under the blankets, worrying about what will happen if I can’t be as perfect as Cassy was. I don’t think I’d go to the labs, but they might replace me. I really, really hope he remembers his promise. April 12 th , 2030 Dad talked Mom out of switching schools. I guess he remembered what we talked about a few days ago. I’m hoping this is a good sign that maybe, just maybe, I’ll get more freedom. My birthday is in three days, and Mom bought flour to make a pineapple upside-down cake. I hate pineapple, but I could never tell her that. She makes it every year and sings Cassy’s favorite song, Baby , by Justin Bieber (of course). I think it’s the only time she experiences genuine joy. Surviving this birthday means I outlived Cassy. Cassy didn’t make it past sixteen, so if I make it even one day past this birthday, I’ll be a success. Mx. Lo caught me hiding in the library at lunch, reading. They suggested I read outside before it gets too smoky from forest fires. I said I preferred artificial light to natural light. Mx. Lo looked uneasy; all I could do was try to seem confident. Later, Ryan picked me up from school, and the car ride home was silent and eerie. I was terrified Mx. Lo had called my parents. I came home expecting Mom to have a stroke, but she was trimming roses and humming a Selena Gomez song that Cassy used to love. Maybe a teenager reading in the library isn’t that weird to ordinary people like Mx. Lo. Maybe I’m not as much of a failure as my parents think. I hate that I have to keep this secret. Dad would go to jail, though, and who knows what would happen to Mom. And me? Dad said they’d send me to a lab for the rest of my life and experiment on me against my will. They’d torture me, he said. Justin Bieber’s music is torture, but it’s nothing compared to what the government would do to me. April 16 th , 2030 The assholes turned my birthday into a funeral. I’m so angry! My actual birthday, which was yesterday, was fine. We listened to Justin Bieber on repeat, ate shitty cake, and talked about my day at school. I lied about a poppy painting to please Mom, and now I have to paint one. Ugh. Honestly, it wasn’t the worst birthday. Usually, they’re filled with warnings about how I might not see my next. Except Ryan woke me up early the following day. He made me dress up in one of Cassy’s old white dresses. I noticed that he, too, was also entirely in white. He took me into our backyard, where Mom and Dad were waiting, also dressed in white. The sun was still rising. Just past our patio were flowers on giant reefs and a big hole in the ground. Next to it was a medium-sized coffin and two other small ones. The medium-sized one was open. My first thought was that I had failed to live up to their expectations, and they planned to bury me alive. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. Nearby, two men in dirt-covered jumpsuits held shovels and cigarettes. Ryan sent them away. I wonder how much Mom and Dad paid them to keep quiet. Probably made them sign NDAs, too. “Your father and I have been talking, and we agreed that it’s time.” Mom wiped her wrinkled face with a handkerchief. “This isn’t just a birthday, sweetheart. It’s a rite of passage. You’ve ascended from your old body into the next. You defied death. ” I blurted out, “You’ve had her this whole time?!” I couldn’t help myself. Mom’s wrinkly skin went pale. Dad shook his head, jowls flapping. “No, Cassy, we’ve had you this whole time. But now that it’s your sixteenth birthday, we can lay your first body to rest, along with your other two bodies that sadly did not make it this far.” I stared at the dark coffin. Dew had formed on it. I was used to weird talk about my “past life,” but they didn’t tell me they kept the bodies! And the casket was open! I couldn’t see in it yet, and I really, really didn’t want to. I gazed past the fence and into the dense forest behind our house, and without thinking, I bolted towards it. Ryan caught me before I made it far. He dragged me back with his hand over my mouth as I screamed. He urged me to stop and promised it would end soon. I don’t know why, but I listened to him. I wiped my tears, turned around, and faced my parents. “Go ahead,” Dad said. I walked up to the casket. I saw hands resting on a chest. My hands. I looked at my Dad, who gave me a faint nod. Mom was too busy crying happy tears, staring at the casket with a manic look I have seen far too many times. “Don’t be afraid!” she bellowed. “You can’t ever die, Cassy. You’ll always be here.” She sobbed into her hands while Dad rubbed her back. He gave me another stern nod, his expression screaming, don’t upset your mother. I approached the casket, tasting bile. I closed my eyes and then opened them. It was me in there. My dead skin was blue and frozen. I had sunken cheeks. My blonde hair was in neat ringlets. I was wearing a white, frilly dress. My chest stuck out unnaturally like someone had stuffed it. I am identical to the body in the casket, except for being alive and well. Even my nails are the same oval shape. “What do you want me to say?” I asked numbly. “Show yourself some respect,” Dad snapped. I couldn’t say she’d died so I could live because Cassy isn’t dead in my parents’ minds. To them, I’m the same person who’s in the casket. I’m here, dressed in her old, out-of-fashion clothes, listening to the same bad music, and hating my life like she did. Mom and Dad figured if I did everything exactly the same, I’d become the person Cassy was. Except I’m not doing anything. The girl in the casket is. I’m just her clone-her third one, to be exact. My rich, well-connected father secretly commissioned me through his network of questionable Korean scientists. I’m the clone that, unfortunately, survived the process. Writing the truth feels great, but I might have to burn this diary after. I can’t go to a lab. I just can’t. “Thank you,” I said to my former self. I walked away. I really, really wanted to throw up. Both men returned, smoked, and buried the three clones in one hole. Mom sobbed the entire time. Dad stood still other than occasionally adjusting his glasses. He seemed weirdly lucid through all of it. The lie my parents tell everyone is that I’m their grandkid. Cassy had a secret child before she died, and it was me. Cassy killed herself because she had mental health issues and the baby didn’t help. I think it’s pretty rich that my parents act like I’m the one disrespecting Cassy, despite them lying about her past like that. But who am I to say anything? I’m supposed to be her. I’m not permitted to have my own opinions. They only revealed the truth about my identity four years ago because, according to them, I was old enough to keep it a secret. Mom and Dad let me leave the funeral before them, and I puked in the downstairs toilet when I got into the house. Mom and Dad didn’t hear. They were too busy crying outside by the casket. I hate this. I can’t tell anyone the truth. I feel so alone. Cloning humans is still illegal in North America. Even if I could summon the courage to say something, I have no friends I can tell. I can’t relate to anyone at school. I’m not allowed to like what they like because many of their hobbies and favorite singers didn’t exist when Cassy was alive. I’m stuck living someone else’s life, except, genetically speaking, I am that person. I am Cassy. My head hurts. I want to throw up again. One day I might write a horror story about a clone who has to act like their dead former self. Then she has to watch herself get buried in some sick ritual that her parents have been anticipating since she was “born.” That’s the closest I’ll ever get to being able to speak my truth. Except I don’t want anyone to discover me and take me to a lab for experiments, particularly if my Dad alive to safeguard me. Maybe I’ll write a story about a girl forced to impersonate her dead older sister. It’s a close enough comparison and won’t raise red flags. I hope, anyway. I want to tell the truth. I want to be seen. But maybe I should just be grateful I exist. Maybe Mom and Dad are right--Cassy can’t die, and neither can I. I guess I should be happy about that. Doesn’t everyone want to live forever? Why can’t I be happy? April 21st, 2030 I thought my birthday/funeral would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. I asked to read last night, but Dad got angry and said it wasn’t like Cassy. Then he told me to practice saxophone. He forgot everything he had promised. I snapped, threw my saxophone at the wall, and ran out of the house. Ryan eventually found me at a gas station down the hill from our house. He rolled up in Dad’s black SUV. I didn’t fight. I just got in the front seat. On the way home, he pulled over on the side of the road. I started biting my nails. He looked older than usual when he spoke. “There’s something I need to tell you about Cassy.” “Great,” I said sarcastically. I couldn't help it. “I knew the first Cassy. She hated the color red and despised painting, especially with your mother. She wanted to be a writer. Except your mother wanted Cassy to play saxophone because that’s what your mother played when she was young. She punished Cassy for reading and being herself, quite like she does now.” My heart felt like it might break out of my chest. “What about Justin Bieber?” “Your mother loves him. Cassy--no, you hate him. Always have. Don’t listen to your parents. Your father was never around . He barely knew Cassy. The poor girl felt trapped. That’s why she...” My heart exploded, and I cried so much. Cassy suffered like I did, and that’s why she killed herself? Ryan unbuckled his seatbelt and hugged me. “In two years, you’ll graduate. You can go to college and pursue your dreams. Take out student loans and free yourself from them. I’ll be there to help you. I promise. I watched you grow up twice. I won’t do it a third time.” We drove home, but only after I finished crying. I apologized to Mom and Dad and went to my room; weirdly, they left me alone. I’ve been here ever since. It’s dark now, and my stomach is growling, but I can’t bring myself to eat. I hated Cassy for so long, but we’re more similar than I realized. We’re not just similar. We’re the same person. I am her. I feel sorry for her. For myself, I should say. I didn’t make it out of this house last time, but I will this time. If I can defy death, I can do anything. There’s a painting of poppies on my bedroom wall that Cassy did. It’s Mom’s favorite. I never noticed before, but some petals aren’t red. They’re magenta, yellow, and even violet. The red petals are near the front and are bigger than the rest, giving the illusion the flowers are mostly one color. My cheeks hurt from smiling. I guess I’m smarter than I give myself credit for.


August 2022 - Memorial Service for Pete Mills Surfing Legend Many surfers had come to Cocoa Beach to pay their respects to 82 year old Pete Mills who had died a couple of days earlier in his sleep. Pete was born in Cocoa Beach to surfing pioneer Peter Mills and mother Marion Mills. He graduated from Cocoa Beach High in 1958 and in 1961 married Barbara Donning. They had two daughters Cindy (Eric) Bolton and Jennifer (Jim) Williams. Barbara and Pete divorced in 1967 and remained on good terms. In 1972 Pete remarried to a woman named Louann Wilson. They had two sons, Brian (Tiffany) and Mark (Stephanie). Sadly in 2018, Louann died. Pete devoted his life to surfing and to the surfing community. He will be sorely missed. Pete was a grandfather to 7 grandchildren (Kaitlyn Bolton-String, Sara Bolton-Thomas, Hannah and Jonah Williams (twins), Tyler Mills, Justin Mills and Erica Bolton). He had two great-granddaughters Mia String and Jill Thomas. He is proceeded in death by his parents, his two older brothers, Melvin and Harry and his second wife Louann. Funeral services will be held on a beach per Pete's request early in the morning. His son in law Eric Bolton who is a Minister for the Surfing Community will do the service. My name is Eric Bolton. I mostly wrote the funeral announcement and everyone agreed with it. No one really noticed that I left the name of James Picken out. He was Cindy's first husband who died over 40 years ago. Most people except of course for the old timers remember the guy but they aren't thinking about him. I know as a minister this sounds terrible but I didn't shed a tear when he died. Cindy did of course but I didn't. Neither did her father. He was angry at how bad James had treated Cindy. James Pickens was murdered two weeks before the 4th of July in 1982. His mouth and his temper contributed to his death. He was high on drugs when he went surfing at night. There was a full moon that night, so he could see. Shortly after the full moon was at its heights, the weather changed and it started thundering and lightening. Don't ever surf at night. The next morning he was found dead on the beach from multiple-stab wounds. Police investigated the murder but never were able to pin it on anyone. Looked like it was someone who was angry that James owned them money. Pete wasn't surprised that James owed money and had heard that James had a gambling problem. He was surprised that someone killed him over it as the person isn't going to get the money now that James is dead. I heard Pete say this to the officer. James Pickens had no family. He was abandoned at birth at the Cocoa Beach Children's home as a baby. He left the Home when he was 13 and lived on the beach. When he had enough money to get a house he did. He was a good surfer but wasn't a good person. Cindy hoped to change that and tried to help him. All she got was verbal abuse (it was really bad towards the end) and he treated her with disrespect. The case of James Pickens has never been reopened. He is mostly forgotten as many of those who were at the police station back in the early 1980's are either deceased or retired. I know who murdered James. First I will say it wasn't me, although after he was so cruel and mean to Cindy, I wanted to do him in. In a way I'm indirect responsible for his murder as I went and took the money from the bookie that he owned money to and put it in a duffel bag. The storm was brief. During the storm, the bookie found the duffel bag outside with the money. They got into an argument. I nearly got hit by the lightening as I was hiding behind the bushes watching the argument from a window which was open. He was yelling for Cindy who had fled to her mom's house after James had punched her in the face. The bookie belittled him saying that she had come to her senses and left him. He responded by trying to hit the bookie in the face. The bookie took out a knife and chased him outside. From the lightening, I could see the bookie stabbing him. The bookie then took the duffel bag and ran off. James wasn't moving and I assumed he was dead. I know this is insane but I went into James's home and spent the night. I got out of there once daylight came. I saw him still lying there when I left. Since there had been a party the night before and I had been there, the fact that my fingerprints were there wouldn't implicate me. At the time I was a surfer and surfed for many years before becoming a minister. It was something that was needed. Cindy and I married a couple of years after James's death. I've never told anyone this, so I'm telling you dear reader.


Manticore (n) - /man(t)iˌkôr/ - A legendary creature having the face of a man, the body of a lion, and the tail of a scorpion. “Hi. My name is Manti,” I say in a friendly tone of voice while slowly extending my hoof so as not to alarm you. We shake, firmly but not too firmly, while maintaining strong eye contact. You tell me your name, and I immediately repeat it back to you, and then offer up an innocuous comment about the weather, or the venue decor, or perhaps even a positive compliment about your attire, just to get the conversation rolling. I ask you questions about yourself and make sure to repeat your name three times. The repetition aids memory retention. As we talk, I face directly towards you with my shoulders square and hooves firmly planted in a wide, open stance - confident but not aggressive - making sure to smile and maintain continuous eye contact, at least until I notice your eyes darting about the room, as you take a half step backwards, your hips angling for escape. I recognize that you’re ready to leave the conversation, but I don’t take it personally. This is a party so I stay positive and graciously allow you to exit the conversation. Even in my imagination nobody wants to talk to me. Let’s try this again. “Hi. My name is Manti,” I say in a friendly tone of voice. Except I speak with a deep husky lisp, my words slurring together in a fuzzy growl so that you have trouble understanding me. Have you ever tried speaking with three rows of teeth? It’s not easy, which is why nobody ever invites a shark to join a high school debate team. I slowly extend my hoof so as not to alarm you, except as I do so, my tail naturally swings out and up to one side, an automatic balancing act that seems wholly unnecessary for a four-footed creature like myself. Resembling a scorpion about to strike, you get a frightening view of my curved needle-like stinger, a hypodermic syringe protruding from the final bulbous segment of my scaly tail. If you resist your natural fight or flight response, you’re likely to notice that I’m offering up my left hoof, a violation of the customary right-handed greeting, and an unfortunate quirk due to a nasty wound on my front right leg, a token of my brief stint working construction. You tell me your name and I immediately repeat it back to you and then promptly forget it. Despite my human shaped head, mostly covered by a large unruly main of stiff hair, my brain is quite small and my memory, among other things, suffers mightily for it. Which is why I must constantly remind myself to smile, even as my toothy grin - remember I have three rows of teeth - seems to scare people off more than anything. But I do maintain excellent eye contact, like an apex predator zeroing in on its helpless prey. It’s my best quality. I wonder why I ever get invited to things, until I remember that I don’t actually get invited to things. But somehow an invitation was extended my way for the party tonight, hosted by Sassy the Sasquatch - we were passing acquaintances back when we were both homeless and living in the woods - in her fancy 34th floor penthouse apartment unit in the heart of Midtown. Quite a step up, even for a bigfoot. I heard she hit it big as an Instagram influencer, though I’ve never bothered to look her up. The building is one of those new mixed-use high rises that seem to pop up every other day, advertising luxurious living while delivering thin walls, shoddy finishes, and a whole host of amenity spaces that nobody actually uses. I arrived at the building an hour early. I’m not usually the punctual type due to my documented memory issues, but I’ve been mentally preparing myself for the last week, and if I had waited any longer, my nerves just might have exploded. I circle the block 27 times - I counted - until the proper hour arrives, and then continue to circle the block 43 more times, for a grand total of 60 blocks worth of wasted gas. I’m aiming for fashionably late, but overshoot the landing by about 30 blocks. By the time I made it to Sassy’s apartment door, the last unit down a long impossibly overlit corridor, I’m now 3 hours late, which only serves to compound my anxiety. The fluorescent pendant fixtures are blinding, the light endlessly bouncing off the eggshell white walls, reminding me of the proverbial tunnel of light you pass through before you die. Too bad I can’t die. “We manticore’s are immortal beings,” my mother used to tell me before she passed away from breast cancer. Anxiety must run in our family because she was always too scared to get a mammogram and I can’t once recall her going to the dentist. That third back row of molars really requires professional cleaning. I stood at the threshold, listening to the muffled sounds of the festivities inside, leaking out through the doorway. Is that a unicorn? You can always tell by their deep baritone laugh - ladies love the laugh almost as much as the horn. And if I’m not mistaken, that high-pitched chattering sounds like a bunch of leprechauns - stories of their drunken debauchery is stuff of legend. And I couldn’t help but notice small pools of water tracing a trail from the elevator to the foot of the door, soaking the purple shag ‘It’s Getting Squatchy in Here!’ welcome mat - the tell-tale sign of merpeople. But now I need to focus on the onerous task before me - knocking on the door. It’s a difficult equation for my tiny man-head. On the one hoof, I could knock and be let into the party which is a good thing. On the other hoof, I could knock and be let into the party, which is not such a good thing. On the third and forth hooves, I could just turn around and leave and no one would be the wiser. Except for that ridiculous welcome mat. “Hi. My name is Manti,” I say to myself, in the friendliest tone of voice I can muster, trying to psych myself up. “Hi. My name is Manti. Hi. My name is Manti,” I repeat over and over again, until the words bleed into a single guttural growl. “Rrrww my raarrw is rwhrhr rawwrh.” Repetition aids memory retention. If I can just remember to be friendly and positive, maybe I can suffer through tonight without any cataclysmic blows to my already fragile mental state. I raise my hoof to knock on the door and commit to my fate, only I accidentally raise my right hoof and now my old construction wound is staring me in the face, the thick lumpy scar tissue seeming to expand and contract across my leg, until it is all I can see. I turn around and start back down the hallway, my spiked tail held low in disgrace. I can’t do it. It’s just too difficult. As insecurity and self-loathing play games in my head, I barely notice the corridor in front of me visibly darkening, a shadow looming, obstructing the light. I look up and see a large creature, far larger than myself, lumbering towards me, it’s long neck and tail sweeping side to side in a graceful serpentine motion like a gently snaking stream, while it’s mammoth torso advances slowly like a tank on the battlefield, it’s short thick legs shuffling steadily underneath. It could only be one thing - a sea monster - something I had only heard rumors about in passing. “Hi. I’m Nessie,” the sea monster called out in a friendly tone of voice, her voice melodic as if she was singing me a lullaby with each word. “I’m Manti,” I mumbled-growled as we approached each other. “Pleasure to meet you Manti!” Nessie sung, compressing herself against one side of the hallway, leaving a thin corridor for me to squeeze through. “Bet you can’t guess what I am? It’s a little game I like to play with new friends.” Are we friends, I thought to myself. Was it that easy? “A sea monster?” I ventured as I took a deep breath and plunged forward into the narrow void space she had left me. “Sea creature,” she quickly corrected, her broad smile never dimming. I slipped easily past her long swaying neck until we were shoulder to shoulder, our broad frames wedged against each other. “Monster is an offensive word. We prefer the term ‘creature’. But you’re correct. I’m the one and only Nessie of the Loch Ness. What are you?” “I’m a manticore,” I replied meekly. “The one and only as well. At least as far as I know.” Our combined girth had pinned us both. We were now a corridor traffic jam struggling to break free. “Well isn’t that something!” Nessie laughed, her giant belly expanding to further pin me against the wall. I began frantically wiggling my body back and forth, trying to worm my way forward inch by inch, taking advantage of each of Nessie’s exhaled breaths. She didn’t seem to notice my discomfort, that smile seemingly plastered across her face. “So what’d you bring to eat?” Nessie asked, holding up a large crockpot proudly. “This is ole’ Nessie’s patented chili con carne with my own secret ingredient. Do you know what the secret ingredient is?” I gave a grunt as I squirmed forward, my shoulders now inline with her hips. Nobody told me we were supposed to bring food. “Love. The secret ingredient is love with a capital 'L'. Not my love of course. But I found a couple down at the VA married for 65 years, through multiple affairs, domestic spats, a couple brief stints in prison, some hard drugs, and raging all-night shouting matches that were the stuff of legend. Stay married through all that and tell me it’s not true Love. Anywhoooo, they both ground up quite nicely with the beef. It makes the chili extra spicy you know.” Nessie held up the crockpot again like a prized possession. I nodded, half paying attention. Nessie didn’t seem to have much control over her tail, much like myself, and as I worked my way past her broad hips, her tail snaked back and forth, smacking me in the face. I tried to flatten myself and duck under it, but couldn’t shimmy my way down low enough, each tail swipe like a hammer beating me backwards. “Where you headed?” Nessie asked, oblivious to my struggles. “The party’s this way.” “Down to my car,” I said, struggling to think of an excuse less embarrassing than the truth. “To get...my own dish. I forgot it in the car. It’s a casserole.” I waited for her tail to swing wide and then made one colossal final push, squeezing free of her considerable frame, tripping and flailing forward into a heap on the floor. “Dang it. I was hoping it was shredded cheese. It’d make a great topping to my chili.” Even her disappointment sounded like a songbird welcoming the spring, I thought as I regained my bearings. “Cheddah makes it bettah you know,” she continued. “I forgot to bring any and we all know Sassy is lactose intolerant. Or at least she pretends to be.” Free from Nessie’s embrace, I barrelled away as fast as I could toward the elevator. Nessie’s head craned around to watch me leave. “Well, hurry back up,” she called after me, “I heard that the Leprechauns were putting on a raffle with some lucrative payouts.” I rounded the hallway corner to find an empty elevator cab waiting for me, and as I squeezed myself into the cab and the doors began to close, I heard Nessie mumbling happily to herself, “Of course they only trade in bitcoin these days, cashed out that pot of gold years ago.” I make it down to my car and collapse in the front seat, an odd mixture of relief and self-loathing immobilizing my thoughts. I sit there for a long time, staring blankly ahead, thinking of everything and nothing all at once, racking my tiny brain to try to figure out where I went wrong. Maybe I just wasn’t ready to get ‘squatchy’ and maybe I’ll never be. Finally, just as I’m about to start the car, a face materializes next to my window, coming out of nowhere. It’s Nessie again, her long neck curving down, her broad smile once again staring me in the face. I roll down the window hesitantly. “I couldn’t help but see you sitting out here, like you were about to leave, which would be quite a shame. I have excellent eyesight, you know. Saw you up there from the balcony.” I looked up in the direction Nessie was pointing and could just barely make out what appeared to be a dragon and some fairies congregating on one of the penthouse balconies. “They’re about to put on the light show. Wouldn’t want to miss that.” “I’m sorry. I think I need to leave,” I mumbled in defeat, too dispirited to even offer up an excuse this time. Nessie smiled and shoved a plastic container at me through the car window. “Here. If you’re leaving I packed you a to-go cup of my famous chili. If you come across some shredded cheese, it makes a great topper.” Nessie paused, what was surely a rare occurrence for her, and I felt her eyes boring into me. “Everybody needs a little taste of love now and then. Even monsters like us.” I looked up and we locked eyes. Her smile seemed even bigger than before. “It was lovely meeting you, Manti. Always a delight to meet a new friend,” she crooned as she turned and lumbered away, disappearing into the building. I sat there motionless for another long moment, wondering how it came to pass that the famed Loch Ness Monster had just personally hand delivered me her very own homemade chili. “Hi. My name is Manti,” I whispered to myself as I got back out of the car.